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=EC 2023= Sky Arena

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7/22/2023 22:59:21   
  Starflame13
Moderator


 Curls of dawn parted to waves of brilliant blue; the sun bursting free from the horizon to illuminate the city of Bren. Its golden rays slid across steel armor and threw sparkling motes of light along silvered weapons. Light caught and danced along a myriad of glass fragments, crystals now interwoven through the stone to leave curtains of minute rainbows dancing in every corner of the city. From strangers to old friends, visiting nobles to lowly cutpurses, lone travelers and full caravans - all were painted by the Arena’s glow.

Power hummed under the excited babble, a siren song that resonated throughout the entire city. Its notes dragged the crowd onward. Through the gleaming city gates and across twisted streets of shops and inns. Past grimy alleyways and grand courtyards and all the houses that stood between. Up and over the final bridge to follow in the footsteps of Champions past, treading along the well-worn cobblestones of Supplicant’s Way. Onward, until the Complex itself stood before them; a looming gateway that swelled to meet the rising tide that surged towards it.

Here, the horde parted. Hundreds of spectators streamed towards the stands, shoving and jostling against each other in the hopes of achieving better seating. The handfuls of hopefuls instead found themselves alone. Whether by hired officials, their own finely-honed instincts, or by unseen magic itself, the Arena tugged them forward to their fate. A destiny written in bloodshed and carnage. A chance for one to stand victorious. A hope of earning a boon.

All that stood in their path now was the Arena itself - and the greatest fighters this world had to offer.

Arched ceilings gave way to open air, bathing the competitors in warm golden sunlight. The gentle burble of a running brook echoed faintly, the sound retreating around corners with no source to be seen. It tugged the hopefuls on, stepping into curls of wispy clouds as they trod upon a smooth marble floor. Mages milled about on the outskirts, their billowing silver robes just visible through the haze. They neither spoke nor glanced at those approaching, merely stepped aside to allow them to pass further into the mist.

Reverence. Remembrance. Disquiet. Dread. All are lost within the expanse of the Sky.

A deep gong rang out - its somber tone undistorted by the surrounding fog - and the mages lifted their arms skyward. Veins of silver and gold flared across the marble expanse, and the entire floor began to ascend. It rose smoothly until it reached the level of the stands surrounding it, the view of the crowd unobscured only for a moment before the soft curl of pearl-white clouds swirled between them.

A series of mirages played out before the combatants’ eyes: an ivory palace of grand archways and spiraling columns. A silvery geyser, its waters cascading past their feet to fall endlessly over the edge beyond. A skyscape of grandeur and glory that stretched across the heavens, forever bathed in the gentle golden light of the sun.

The gong rang out once more, and slivers of wind rent themselves through the fading splendor. Columns tumbled and smashed to the ground, leaving fissures and cracks in the once-smooth marble. Archways decayed till naught but the crumbling stones of their base remained, barely visible in the golden haze. The geyser burbled, silvery water alone unchanged, untarnished, retreating to the edges of the arena in an ever-present whispering cascade.

As the last reverberations of the gong faded, the voices of the mages swept forth - starting as a grand proclamation and fading until barely their whisper was heard. “And so begins the Trial of the Ruins. Fight or Die, adventures, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 1
7/24/2023 23:13:15   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


 Queen Lyre’s throne could not be uncomfortable. It was her position of power; the seat from which she ruled her people. The seat from which she made decisions that grew her kingdom, that brought bread to the tables of the masses, that welcomed newcomers to their fold. It had to be fit for her. It had to. So she crossed and uncrossed her legs, perfectly content in the slight depression of the wooden board. She leaned against the gnarled post at her side. Both it and its twin towered over even her standing height; a truth she tried to ignore. It was wrong for a throne to be greater than its occupant.

“So. Our next point of order.”

Her voice called out over the square, cutting silence short so that all would listen to their Queen. Just as always.

“Our kingdom thrives! Our most recent ventures have brought new friends to our tables, new arms to our ranks, and new faces to our court.” She smiled warmly behind her veil as she addressed the nobody that surrounded her. “But it brings with it a predicament most bitter and foul. Advisor Jericho, present your findings to the court.”

The last dying embers of a once brilliant fire crackled gently.

“Yes, exactly. We can no longer grow!” The Queen looked out over her kingdom, the vast houses of commoners and nobles alike dotting the landscape as far as her gaze reached, each and every one reduced to rubble. Her rose-kissed eyes saw none of it. “Our kingdom is one with our neighbors and their neighbors and we have nothing left to gain! Which leads us to our plight. Oracle Celantha, if you please.”

The caw of a crow broke the nothing. It leapt into the air, its flight knocking free its perch. The corpse fell to the ground with a dull thud, golden rings and carried jewels clattering across the reddened stones.

Queen Lyre nodded in approval. “We are a doomed kingdom. Fate has foretold our fall. Without the ability to expand, the gifts of the land may falter, the rivers may dry. Our kingdom will not be able to sustain our brothers and sisters. And I, as queen, will not abandon even the newest of our family. So we have one final option. One that I, as you must know, am loath to accept. Father Dirus, you may speak.”

A final stone, weary from supporting its broken brethren, gave way. Marble and stone and glass careened to the earth as gravity took hold. The roar deafened her voice, the shockwave from the collapse put out lingering fires, and the remains of the castle buried corpses of knights and nobles. The Queen did not flinch, did not react. Her sky-blue eyes simply stared out behind the tattered veil at an empty square, listening to silent voices of nothing, watching false shades of no one.

“Yes. The Lords.” She practically spat the word, though she did not notice. “The Elemental Championships. We send our best, and they bring our kingdom the best. But of course, I will lead as I always have.”

Queen Lyre stood, her rotted throne toppling over in the breeze. A stray splinter of wood cut at her dress, tearing a hole through a scarlet stain.

“I shall enter, myself. My voice shall guide the Steelsong as ever. Be it the field of war or a simple coliseum game, I will not falter. Advisor Jericho is to maintain order in my absence. I shall not be long, and when I return, we shall be a kingdom eternal!”

Queen Lyre strode away, her heeled steps muted by the pools upon the stones. She did not turn back as the last of the rubble gave way, and her court was buried beneath her kingdom eternal.



The quiet of her steps annoyed her. The stone streets, the marble floors, every surface in her kingdom was designed such that her steps could echo, and the queen’s presence could be known before you set eyes on her. Bren’s outer reaches held no such niceties; nothing but dirt and sand to muffle her footfalls and make her seem like one of the many. When the occasional stone did cross her path, she ensured her heel struck with a loud clack, but even those opportunities were few and far in between. Her ruby lips instead curled for the way the crowds naturally parted for her regality, by their eyes which drifted away rather than meet hers. So focused was she on keeping her gaze above the rabble that she saw not the downturned, shaking stares at the stains upon her dress, the parent’s arms that grabbed wandering children to pull them to their sides, or the faces that turned away from the sight of the tangled steel crown upon her head. And so her advance continued blissfully uninhibited. When she finally reached stone and crystal streets, her steps were deafening.

Queen Lyre had arrived precisely on time. It was a constant in her life, made far easier by the fact that whenever she arrived was the correct time. She’d planned her journey perfectly, stretching out each stop such that her pace from her kingdom to this adorably quaint place had been naught but leisurely. She ignored the calling voices from inns and taverns, each boasting that their lines were ripe for “late” entries, or that they had drinks and final feasts that could possibly rival the stores of her castle’s cellars. Instead her certain steps brought her directly to the foot of the grand structure that dominated Bren. Her gaze swept up and across the complex’s ornate carvings and stones, drinking in this marvel that only Bren could offer. Perhaps she would request that her architects construct her a coliseum of her own. The Queen tilted her head as she considered the idea. She would not be able to outdo the Lords, of course, but she could certainly match them.

The line of hopefuls was far too long. She’d seen enough war to instantly pick apart each and every soul that stood before her. Clean sets of armor worn by souls that had never suffered but a bruised elbow, bloodied blades held in the unsteady hands of men that would rather return to their wives and children than stare down death again. Queen Lyre shut her eyes, letting her first day on the field of battle rush back. Her mother had walked her to the frontlines, while her father got fat on the first spoils of their new friends. What had mother done, that had scattered men so? Ah, right. She remembered form, but not quite the function. Nevertheless,the low melody slipped through Lyre’s lips. A gentle tune, no more than a promise, nothing but a lyricless hum. Any more would be saved for those within.

It need not even wake. A sleptwalked verse, mummering of memories.
A day a century half and half-again gone, when a Queen woke Song for her daughter yet-gifted.
On that day it had been given one command for one soul.
That one command scattered body in scarlet, then scattered men with naught but the promise of the same.
Today it was to simply tell the audience of that moment. Nothing more, nothing more.


Queen Lyre giggled, breaking her hum short. Frantic footfalls had failed to drown out her tune, nor had the muttered apologies and the singular scream that had sounded quite like an accompaniment. She waited patiently for the remaining few. They were each of them fit for a place among her people; perhaps if she found them later an invitation would be in order. When her chance came she dropped her gaze to the scribe. Her mere presence seemed to shake the boy; when Bren had nothing but the formless Lords, perhaps it became natural that the weight of true authority could become oppressive.

Queen Lyre smiled sweetly beneath her veil, her eyes failing to match the kindness upon her lips. “An entry, if you may.”

The scribe stammered out a response. “Your name?” His eyes remained downcast, refusing to meet hers. The simple show of respect touched her heart.

“Queen Lyre.” The name was music off of her lips, and she almost wished to embrace The Song. But no, the mere taste would have to be enough. Soon. Soon.

Frantic scribbles. His handwriting was neat, intimidated as he was. Her archivist could stand to learn from this boy. “And your element?”

Oh how she wanted to sing her response! She could scatter these contracts to the sky as confetti! Split the table in twain and dance upon the splinters! But no. Soon. Soon.

“Wind.” A slight hum escaped, though not enough to shake the skies, and she giggled again. “You may skip all the disclaimers; I am well aware.”

The scribe turned the paper to the queen and she signed her name with a flourish, that the Lords above could see her resolve. With a secret smile, Queen Lyre turned and strode silently into the looming complex, the first notes of a song waiting within her breath.



Queen Lyre walked out from under the arch, breathing deep the crisp, sunlit air. The babbling brook, its source out of reach, granted rhythm to her steps as she paced a small circle ‘round her start. Through the cloudy mists she could just barely make out the sparkling silver of Bren’s mages as they went about their duty. It was time to begin.

The Queen swept an arm out in time with the crash, anticipating the somber drone of the gong even before it sang. She shook not when the entire field lifted on high, instead casting her gaze lower than ever to admire her newly reached height. She turned and beamed a confident smile at the crowds before the fog rolled back in and she was alone once more.

But she wasn’t. A glance to the left revealed a hopeful of little note, clothes baggy as some of her lesser-seen servants. A glance to her right caught one of far more interest; a giant fit for war, her prosthetic arm rich with the markings of magic and her posture speaking of one perfectly able to weather the coming trials. That one. That force shall become her own.

The shifting, swirling fog broke Lyre’s thoughts. Within it she saw a geyser of water akin to the wells of a conquered land, a sunlit sky of grandeur and glory, and…

She gasped. A palace to rival her very own. Its ivory columns towered above her now-small stature, its arches were fit to hang above only the most royal,and its doorways must have been trod-through by the greatest kings and queens of history. She took a single, silent step forwards, eager, for the very first time, to explore a kingdom that was not her own.

Gonnnnnng

She did not anticipate the second crash. She gazed wordlessly past the tumbling columns, registered not the collapse of regality that she refused to find familiar. A single step backwards betrayed a thought she could not find, and her heel caught at the edge of nothing. She quickly forced a stumble forwards rather than back, avoiding a plummet into the void. Lyre caught herself from falling to a knee, forcing herself back to a posture high and mighty. In all her motion, her crown did not budge an inch. The call declared this the “Trial of Ruins”, a moniker unfit for one such as her. Every neighbor was welcomed to her fold in its entirety, every ravage of war wiped clean and replaced before a land could call itself hers. This would need to be no different.

But a queen could never act alone. Without subjects to lead, she would be little more than a vagabond. She strode through the fog, her every step clacking with intent on the uneven ivory beneath. Her hand dipped just low enough to pry a marble sphere from the debris. She admired the ornate patterns along its edges, tracing a finger along the missing path as she called out to her giant charge.

“Oh you, who have clearly known bloodshed and loss.” Her voice called beyond the fog, rhythm seeping within to enunciate order. “I offer you a chance. My kingdom is vast; boundless beyond the edges of this land of the Lords. If you like, I shall give you a home, that you may find shelter from greater loss. I shall give you glory, that you may live your greatest day each sunrise. And I shall give you power, that you may feel as if you are your own master. You need only fight in my name, in that of Queen Lyre.”

The queen gripped her marble tightly, her mind and gaze too locked on the silhouette of the warrior before her to notice how the rough edges of stone cut at her fingers and drew forth trickles of crimson. Her words were rarely denied, but if this giant so much as twitched the wrong way, then the queen would punish such defiance.

A small breath drew in air, a small gasp coaxed out the first line of a song.

And something around her stirred.

Post #: 2
7/26/2023 4:06:33   
Dronier Ravelin
Member

"The Cold is a state of mind."

Kastug knelt in supplication, legs parallel and hands on knees, with his head bowed in deep respect. Surrounding him, stretching into an endless horizon, lay the snow of the frozen north. It fell from the sky in soft, frequent flurries, small drifts forming over his lap, shoulders, and atop the giant-kin's head.

Before him stood a wizened elder, barely taller than Kastug's kneeling form, white beard flowing from wrinkled, pale skin as a blizzard flows from the clouds. Gripped in one ancient, calloused hand he bore a staff made of pure ice, the other held a blue-grey amulet forged and wrought in the fractal shape of a snowflake. The aged priest looked to the sky above, mouth moving in silent praise.

The deafened ritual finished, the elder's gaze turned downward to Kastug, the amulet held forward, as the wizened voice of the shaman echoed across the snow.

"Kastug, son of Koth. By right of trial and of birth, you have been chosen. The Lord of Ice, mighty guardian of our people, has placed upon you the duty of serving his will. You are to travel south, to the land known as Bren, and do battle amongst the assembled champions."

Kastug did not stir, the only movement his terse lips as he spoke in reply. "Of course, as the Ice Father commands, his will be done."

"Rise, then. And go, in the name of our people and our Lord."
-
The sun shone above the bustling city of Bren, shimmering golden hue engulfing the crowded streets, light enchanting and empowering the shine of every surface, the allure of every corner. Faceless masses shuffled every which way imaginable, visiting shops and stalls, chattering with colleagues and neighbors, the upcoming festivities creating a humming energy matched by few things in the world.

And the only thought in Kastug's head was "It's too karking hot..."

Towering over the city stood the Arena, the destination of the giant's long journey. As he approached he felt the ancient history of the place dawn over him, an alluring call combining with his determined cause, drawing him closer and closer. Stepping over the well-worn bridge, the entrancing call was broken only by the need to register himself before entering fully.

After signing himself in amongst the myriad competitors, Kastug proceeded as directed, the elaborate design of the outer Arena steadily giving way to more exotic fare. An arched ceiling turned to open sky, stone walls giving way to flowing air, the marbles beneath him growing bleached by the sun, and a misty haze enveloping the hulking man as he continued forward.

As he stood within the rolling fog, a droning gong echoed out, and the sudden shift saw Kastug bracing himself in a hunched combat stance, the rising of the very ground beneath him an unexpected sensation. Following it came the illusory vision of a gleaming white palace, a dazzling display of splendor and beauty. Kastug's eyes darted over it with suspicion and focus before the second gong rang out. The sight of the palace steadily falling into dust and ruin steeled the giant-kin further, hands flexing and clenching as the decay of time devoured the once-bedazzling structure.

"And so begins the Trial of the Ruins. Fight or Die, adventures, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”

At these words Kastug acted with little hesitation, wrists flicking and icy veins across his skin pulsing blue-white light as a pair of axes, forged of pure ice but as sharp as the finest blades, sprang into his muscles grips. His fingers clenched and tightened around them as his head turned to scan the scene, taking in what was before him. He heard the distant calling of speech to his left, presumably beyond his immediate rival there, and chose to instead slowly creep forward, glacial patience and caution taking the forefront of his mind.
Post #: 3
7/26/2023 22:58:17   
Apocalypse
Member

The frost bear reared up on its hind legs and roared, spittles of saliva and mist flicking over a row of gleaming, razor-sharp fangs. The Jotnari roared back in kind, arms thrown to either side and blood pounding in her ears. Her gaze shifted to her great axe, its head buried into the mountain’s slope midway between her and the beast. Her tongue flicked over her teeth as her eyes shot back to that cavernous maw filled with her demise, to the glossy cyan orbs brimming with primal fury. Neither beast nor warclad made a move as the mountain sun loomed over them, its winter light reflecting off the snowscape and nearly blinding her. Her muscles tensed, winding tighter with every passing heartbeat-

-the bear fell onto all fours-

-and she bolted.

Broken twigs and scattered rocks flew beneath the warclad’s feet with every step. The cutting wind whipped at her hair and face, yet she kept her eyes locked onto the bear’s. It pounded forward, rocking the ground beneath it like thunder. Many conflated frost bears as totems of pure strength, failing to recognize that they rivaled even wolves in raw speed. In only a few bounds it proved this true, leaping over the great axe before the Jotnari could cross even half the distance. Ice coalescing over its fangs, the frost bear lunged forward with crystal-clear claws extended in a deadly embrace.

A smile split Vosta’s face as she leapt into the air, hand pulling free the dagger at her side-



The dire boar grunted, pawing at the ground with a hoof large and strong enough to cave in a man’s chest with a mere step. Bristles of bone protruded from its tusks like thickets of brambles. It snorted and shook its head, the tusks clacking together in a mimicry of snapping limbs - tree and bone alike.

Vosta stood stonefaced against the boar. Her single amber eye glared a hole that made grown men flee before her. As the beast peered back, impervious to fear, a flutter of feathers stole the attention of her Storm Eye. Black and violet - violet and black - they danced as petals in a maelstrom. They flitted back and forth, crossing the vision of the dire boar and the night sky beyond her sight yet still visible to her. Vosta ignored them, instead focusing on the fallen spear lying between her and the beast. Blood and Bone reached for her side as she took a single step forward-

-and the boar charged.

Vosta held her ground, face grim against the oncoming onslaught. Sharpened talons plucked free a bolas from her belt, and the Jotnari swung it over her head as she counted the boar’s bounds. One.

The dire boar bucked its head, its tusks kicking up a spray of dirt and grass.

Two.

The beast leaped over The Crow Laugh, its back hoof knocking against it and sending it tumbling into the stream with a splash.

Thr-

K R O D O T T I R
Vosta stumbled as the word split into her right ear and rang throughout her skull. The bolas flew from her grip a hair too early and flung itself too high - it wrapped harmlessly around one the boar’s tusks rather than its legs. Vosta cursed. Had she succeeded, the beast would have landed face first at her feet but now it lunged to rip the warclad apart. She gripped her cloak with Blood and Bone and threw it over her shoulder as she turned into the enemy’s charge. Her legs dug into the earth to brace herself against the impending impact. Vosta caught one final glimpse of pitch-black eyes beneath tangled bone before ducking her head beneath the Cloak of Crow’s protection.

KRRRSSSHHHHNNNNNNNNGG

Boar and cloak shrieked in tandem as the tusk tore across the cloak, scattering the feathers in its path but failing to pierce through its veil. Vosta threw out her free arm too late to catch her fall. Her chin struck a stone, the taste of iron filling her mouth and vibrant white dominating her vision-

-save for a darkened, winged shape at the edge of her Storm Eye.

A cloaked figure formed from a plethora of wings, not so much as black as the absence of its opposite, washing over and crashing against each in an eternal storm. The figure reached out to her with an arm far too long for even its tall, spindly frame, pointing with a single talon. Or was it reaching past her?

The flash left as it came, and with it the undulating shadow. The Jotnari thrust out her arms to pick herself up and found herself one short; a throbbing sensation where Bone and Blood should be. Vosta threw another curse to the wind and scrambled to her feet. Behind her the boar’s hooves clopped against the scattered stone in a furious rhythm. Sixteen paces behind, maybe twelve. The Jotnari reached for the Jarlman tucked away at her side: a slim chance against a boar but far better than none. Fingers finding the familiar grip, Vosta pivoted on her foot-

-and spied The Crow Laugh sitting six feet shy of the stream’s edge.

Vosta froze but the boar shook her free of the stupor with an impetuous squeal. Having regained its footing among the loosened stone, the beast resumed its charge. Vosta’s eye shot from the boar to the spear and back again.

And before she could think, she ran.

The boar squealed again, this time in frustration as its prey refused to stay put. Its cries became distant to the Jotnari. Ten paces. The pounding hooves rumbled on the stone, but Vosta pushed that away as well. Instead, her mind focused only on The Crow Laugh. With one last leap, she landed next to the spear and kicked it up with a foot. Six. It seemed to hover in the air for a moment at eye height, and Vosta snatched it from the air with ease. Two.

And with a flourish, Vosta sundered the sky.

The shrill cackle of The Crow Laugh pierced the air, mocking the Jornari for barely maintaining her grip. Indeed, the weapon seemed to move of its own accord, as if dragging Vosta forward rather than being thrust forth. The boar spear cleaved through a thicket of the protruding spines and punctured the beast just inside its left eye. The blade vanished into the boar’s flesh until the two winglike lugs halted its advance. The squeals that followed grew sharper, higher, and frantic beyond measure. The boar continued to push against the spear, and Vosta clenched her teeth as she slid back a foot. Had the warclad still possessed Blood and Bone, she would have maneuvered to pin the beast onto the ground. But she did not, and thus she waited, arm wrapped around and grasping The Crow Laugh until the struggling and squealing came to a close.

Vosta held the boar spear in place after the beast collapsed, ensuring that it was wholly and truly dead. Once its blood dyed the stone crimson to her satisfaction, she slackened her grip on The Crow Laugh.

“A hunter as fine as we ever had. A shame you restrict yourself to feeding grounds such as these when the whole skies remain open to you.”

She ignored the familiar voice, drawing her hunting dagger and whistled a low tune. A few dozen paces away, a large black bird head popped out from behind a boulder. “Ba’jorn.” She flashed the Jarlman in the air, and the rest of the crow hopped into view. Ba’jorn hobbled forward, favoring his left leg as he bounced from stone to stone. He landed next to Vosta, standing almost as tall as her when she crouched. He behaved himself, remaining silent and occasionally tilting his head as Vosta worked.

Unfortunately, her unwanted guest did not share the carrion crow’s manners. They approached from her good side, and no matter how intently she focused on separating one of the hind legs from the boar’s body, she could not help but see the bottom of his unkempt robes. “Your flights have carried you far and wide, Crow-Daughter.”

Vosta grunted as she put the Jarlman to work. Have I not forbid you from uttering that name?, she wanted to spit back. But she held her tongue, for invoking her authority meant recognizing her place as jarl of the Crowcallers - and her prolonged abandonment of those duties. So instead Vosta continued to sever the boar’s leg, leaving the unspoken question lingering in the air.

And Junral let the silence hang between them. Still as the grave, the crowspeaker simply watched as Vosta cut through tendon after tendon, the wet sound of cleaved meat the only conversation between them.

Neither broke the silent arrangement, but it was broken all the same.

K R O D O T T I R
A searing spike pierced her skull. Vosta fell to her knees, the Jarlman clattering to the ground as she clutched her scarred ear. Eye clenched shut, the Jotnari pushed past the pain, uttering names staggered with hearty breaths.

...Arnek…

…Frideir…

…Helrun…

By the time she reached the fifth name, the pain had passed and her senses returned to her. She tasted salt on her lips and felt the chill of the cold sweat seep into her. A dark rag entered from the corner of her eye, and Vosta snatched it from the offered hand. She wiped at her mouth, absolving herself of the salty taste but not of the sour sting lingering on her lips, the kind that made all things rotten. Vosta kept the rag pressed to her mouth in spite of its ineffectiveness, as if somehow by keeping it there long enough it would gain the power to purge the foul sensation from her.

“It is getting stronger.”

It was not a question. Vosta looked up at Junral, their face scant inches from her own. This close, it was impossible to miss the scrunched up wrinkles born of worry, the brilliant eyes dulled by sadness. A mouth held ever so slightly agape by powerlessness.

Just to the right of them, in the space where Vosta should have no sight, several feathers fluttered to where no ground bore fruit.

“Worse,” Vosta said as she handed Junral back their rag. “It is getting worse.”

“Worse!”

Both crowspeaker and warclad looked down at the carrion crow vying for their attention. “You have been patient, Ba’jorn.” She gestured to the boar carcass with her remaining hand. “Eat, and grow strong.” The bird of prey ruffled its feathers, hopped over to the fallen beast and began tearing at its underbelly. It stretched out its wings behind it as it ate. One wing reached out almost five feet, the sun’s light dancing off the silver tint to its obsidian feathers. The other did not even match half that distance, and it lacked the polished sheen of its twin. Her heart hung heavy as she continued to watch Ba’jorn. “Not just the callings. The visions as well.”

As if waiting to be acknowledged, stormy greens and icy blues filtered down from above her.. She turned her gaze to the sky and the weaving colors as they danced and swayed in their mirages across what existed and what did not. Tangling to and fro, they stretched out beyond the horizon. The further they reached, the more they wove together into a single, wandering strand.

“And?” Crowspeaker Junral stepped closer to their warlord, blind to the miracles around them. “Have you discerned their meaning?”

Vosta, daughter and heir of Vostadt, followed the trail of blazing lights before glancing down to where The Crow Laugh had picked itself up from the stream. “Only that I cannot return home to nest.”



Vosta hated the city of Bren.

The low folk had walled themselves in, huge houses of stone funneling the masses into rivers with no outlet. The warclad pulled in an elbow as another passerby brushed past her without a word. She had grabbed the first trespasser who had done so by the scruff of the neck and nearly thrown him to the ground. Now so many had done so that she lost count. Vosta pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders to ward off the discomfort. She had not been so close to so many without spilling blood.

“Lose your hand!”

Ba’jorn cackled from his perch on her shoulder, and a few young ones joined in the laughter as they pointed. A glance in their direction from the Jotnari put it to a swift end, all color draining from their faces as they shrunk away. Vosta had no doubt they would have not joined the laughing had they understood the threat. She had defaulted to the familiar giantish, forgetting in her fury that here they would, of course, speak the low tongue. Ba’jorn took delight in repeating her mistake every few dozen paces.

“Lose you hand, lose your hand, CAW!"

“Hush, Ba’jorn.” Vosta stroked the carrion crow’s chest with a finger. Through the feathers, the Jotnari felt his quickened heartbeat. “The wind rides at our back, hush now.” She glanced up to the sky where the searing lights flickered from the sight behind sight and blended with what was known. They surged brighter now, having grown stronger the longer she had traveled. No longer strands but a deafened tempest pooling above the city known as Bren. A great astral body rivaling even the sun’s, and many more times beautiful. “Our flight is almost at its end, hush.” Ba’jorn nestled himself as she cooed to him, pressing up against her neck and head. His feathers were rough and coarse, but familiar. And in a strange land such as this, she could not wish for more than familiar.

The warclad had traversed many mountain paths shorter than this manmade trail through Bren. The sun itself burned high in the sky, basking the city in light as if it felt challenged by the presence of the astral light only Vosta could see. It was only when the thought that perhaps Bren was unending and had been a trap laid to ensnare foolish travelers that the Jotnari finally found what she was looking for: one last massive structure, less carved than born of stone that dwarfed the rest in both size and majesty. Power. Age. Strength. Every inch of it radiated with purpose and set aglow with luminance from above.

The throngs of low folk thinned, and Vosta breathed easier. An entrance stood just a short distance away, but thus far the Jotnari seemed to be the only one approaching it. “Let us see what Ol’ Crow has in store for us.”

“CAW!”

The slightest of smiles tugging at her lips, Vosta marched forward.

“Pardon me, future paragon!”

Vosta turned towards her storm side. She had not seen the couple of low folks sitting to this side of the entrance. They wore much of the same dress as many of the others in the city had - clothes free of dirty and wrinkles, with skin far too untanned and hands un-calloused. Too many who had grown soft, neither weathered by war or hardship. Vosta snorted as they approached, like pale shadows of each other.

“I do not mean to disturb,” chimed in the other. He continued on, his speech quick and words quicker. Vosta’s nose twitched - she had some practice in the low tongue for dealing with outsiders, but she caught only one word out of every five as he prattled on and on.

At some point, he finished and the pair looked at her expectantly.

She stared back at them.

The taller of the pair coughed.

After a minute of uncomfortable squirming, the shorter one cleared his throat and spoke again, this time articulating every syllable and putting a pause between each word. He pointed toward the colosseum. “Who. Do. You. Fight. For?” He smiled with teeth that had never before seen the business end of a mace.

Vosta shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Once she would have said she fought for Jarl Vostadt, that did not seem to be what the man was asking. The Crowcallers likewise seemed to fail by that merit, not to mention the bitter taste in her mouth prevented her from voicing them. Vosta turned towards her feathered companion. “What thoughts do you have, Ba’jorn?” But the carrion crow did not answer her - he did not even turn his head. “Ba’jorn?”

K R O D O T T I R
The Jotnari dropped to a warring stance, The Crow Laugh poised to strike. Both of the low folk jumped back and threw their arms up in the air, but neither spear nor warclad were focused on them. Instead, both warrior and weapon honed in on a deep shadow nearest the colosseums’s outer wall, some eight or twelve paces away. A deep shadow that Vosta swore had possesed the folding of feathers in the shape of a winged figure for the briefest of moments.

“You have my attention, Ol’ Crow! Speak! Or is your tongue only sharp enough to prick and needle!”

Her giantish words, of course, went unanswered. After the last echo died, Vosta allowed herself to relax, or at the very least exit her combat stance. She turned to the pair of low folks, still quivering in place but nonetheless holding their ground. Switching to the low tongue, Vosta pointed The Crow Laugh towards the colosseum. “Fight.” Her fingers curled into a fist which slammed against her chest. “Ol’ Crow.”

“R-right then.” The taller one looked to the shorter. His words followed her as she marched towards the colosseum’s entrance. “C-Crow. Wind. Wind it is.”

“Ol’ Crow!”

The Jotnari hesitated, and with a gentle tenderness unbefitting her large form, lifted Ba’jorn off her shoulder. “I am sorry, old friend,” she said in giantish. The carrion crow tilted his head at her as she set him upon the ground. “This fate is mine and mine alone. May we hunt together again. In this sky or another.”

She turned and walked away.

“Krodottir!”

Her heart tightened within her chest, but she did not falter. If she did, she knew she would not have the strength to begin again.

“KRODOTTIR!”

Within the privacy of the colosseum’s cavernous pathway, Vosta allowed her tears to fall.



“Is this supposed to impress me, Ol’ Crow?”

Tears long dried, Vosta tapped the butt of her spear twice as she stepped forward. A conglomeration of voices almost seemed to welcome her approach. “Ruins?” She clucked her tongue. The battleground hung suspended hundreds, mayhaps thousands of feet above the city known as Bren. And the best it could provide was a kingdom already fallen from its grandeur. “A warning then, or perhaps a reflection?” Of you or me? She gave a raspy laugh. “I expect more from you, Ol’ Crow.”

The Jotnari took a glance around the arena, peering through the golden haze surrounding them. There appeared to be five others on the outskirts of the ruins, though she would not put it past one or more combatants to have already hidden themselves amidst the rubble. Thus far only two drew any attention from her Storm Eye: one warrior across the way wielding a burning weapon and another to her right clad in bearskin. From the former, crimson and black flames poured like serpents from their armored form. The other seemed to live and breath frost, an observation supported by the blades of ice he forged from nothing with apparent ease. Vosta eyed him further, how similar he seemed to the Jotnari yet different. A rival, Ol’ Crow? She recalled stories Junral once told of other giantsborn clans; of those living in a land under the cruel rule of winter.

Perhaps an old vendetta was all it was - an Ol’ Crow seeking vengeance on an even older bear Vosta grunted as she turned towards the giantborn, pointing the Crow Laugh in his direction.

“Oh you, who have clearly known bloodshed and loss.”

Vosta stopped and turned slowly to face the wisp of the woman speaking down to her. She wore a dress in the manner of the low folk, and yet so much not in the manner of the low folk. Her veil, scarf, and gown were all marred by similar stains of red. Vosta could not make out her face, and in truth only caught half of her words. She needed neither to understand when a low folk considered her inferior.

The warclad slipped two of her Carrion Quills between her fingers. “I bow to no one.” She switched to the low tongue as she raised her arm back. “Your blood, I shed.”

With a single whip of her arm, Vosta hurled the twin quills forth, each racing the other to strike down their master’s impudent foe.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 4
7/27/2023 2:53:20   
Necro-Knight
Member

The fire had always been a comforting thing. In his younger years, it had been a source of safety and warmth. A sanctuary from the throngs of demons, bandits and whatever else the nobility had deemed unfit to continue desecrating their holy city. Now, it was a connection, almost a window, to the being who had burned away the lies of his previous life. Amid the smoke, popping wood and hungry flames, he saw her. Saw the world she promised was possible with his crusade.

The Matron of Flame had described a world cleansed by hellfire, where all shackles and suffering were burned away. Lies and deception created by the warped soul of man would be reduced to ash, germinating the growth of a new world where man’s natural spirit would be free to thrive in Sin. Sin did not judge. Sin did not chastise. Sin simply wished for all to prosper in its excess.

After countless generations of being reduced to pawns for either the Light’s will or that of their fellow man, Malgerius would see his people released from their suffering. A daunting task, to free an entire people from bondages built into the fabric of creation, but not an impossible one. His Matron had blessed him with the very same fire that fueled her passion for humanity’s freedom, granting him the role of a blazing beacon in which to lead demons and man alike towards a brighter future.

For now though, the Hellfire Paladin stared unblinkingly into the tavern’s fireplace, thinking only of his Matron’s final promise and the one he greedily kept close to his heart above all others. Once the deed was done and the world cleansed of the Light’s perversions, he would finally be free to find eternal solace at her side. An eternal existence to share in the Holy Sin and its endless bounties together. A small smile crept across the pale soldier’s lips at the thought, as it always did. Before, serving the Light, his destiny was to simply fight and die… but now, he had both a purpose and an existence beyond it. One of his own choosing.

In the chilliest of nights, that was more comforting than even the brightest of flames.

Raised voices from the night time streets of Bren drew the Paladin’s eyes from the fire and his mind from his musings as a pair of individuals exploded into the tavern. The first was a man, short and full-bellied. A head of curled silver hair bounced almost more than his belly as he shoved his way through the unfortunate patrons between him and the large table in the center of the tavern. As he came into the light and all but hopped into his desired chair, Malgerius counted a total of eight different jewels embedded into a pendant emblazoned with a golden sun.

The familiar stench of greed and pride reached his nose a few moments later, pulling a smirk from his lips. It reminded him of his new home, if not a pathetic, watered down version of true Sinners. A few moments later, a young woman followed the round man and stopped to bow in apology to every patron who shot the man with a disgruntled look and drew the Paladin’s attention.

Her skin was fair, if not deeply deprived of the sun’s kiss and the bags beneath her green eyes were visible even from across the tavern as she tucked a crimson lock behind her ear. Despite the obvious exhaustion, she rapidly came to her supposed master’s side, bowing finally in apology for the delay to him. While Malgerius was unable to hear his words to her, the wince of her face and the stiffness of her body spoke volumes.

As if she was unable to hear him even bowing at his side, the man reached up and gripped a handful of her hair in stubby fingers, yanking her down to speak at a volume that even the Paladin had no issue hearing.

“Oi, how ‘bout instead’a apologizin’ to the poor folks, ya make yer’self useful and fetch me a drink and bite t’eat! I didn’t walk ‘ere with ya just to sit ‘ere and look pretty!” His language was lowly, almost guttural in its language and carried the bitter scent of gluttony across the tavern to the only being who could recognize it.

With a silent bow of her head, the woman set off to speak to one of the waitresses where she produced a small book to share from the pocket of her simple dress. Apparently, the man’s usual order was dense enough to require being written down.

Malgerius hadn’t even realized he was already half-way across the tavern until he noticed his own shadow from the fireplace behind him as he moved. It took no time for the pompous figure to crook his neck up at the towering form that approached him and he stuck out a finger as the Paladin stepped up to him.

“Oi, what’do you want, ol’ man? If yer lookin’ fer work, I got plenty o’ serv’nts who’ll do it f’r cheaper than some mercenary, so bugger off. I ain’t lookin’ fer no comp’ny other than my own tonight.”

“Yet who brought your companion with you… Were you seeking to escape her amid the forest of those taller than you?” Malgerius’ voice was calm, quiet and cracked with a dryness that no amount of water ever seemed to clear.

“Wats’she to ya? Like I said, I got pl’nty o’servants, she knows her place and knows not to op’n her mouth when it ain’t wanted… unlike you, ya giant oaf.”

The man earned a slight brow raise of surprise from the Paladin as he slid back his chair and climbed onto the tavern’s table, his polished shoes kicking food and drink alike onto the floor as he made his way over to look Malgerius in the eye… or as close as he could achieve. Out of the corner of his eye, Malgerius could see the woman standing with a petrified look on her face, hands over her mouth as if to silence a cry before a hungry beast.

“Do I gotta teach ya some mann’rs? I came to Bren to w’tch the bloodshed and glorious b’ttles but if I gotta beat the stupid outta ya, I ain’t above it!”

The Paladin blinked once before speaking, simply, “You don’t seem to be above much.”

The man’s response was not all too different from the squeal of an enraged hog and he let fly a stubby fist towards the Paladin’s jaw. Malgerius’ gauntlet exploded from beneath the traveler’s cloak he had kept wrapped around black armor and engulfed the fat man’s hand with ease.

The round noble’s squeals of rage quickly turned to cries of pain as the Paladin squeezed and lifted the man from the table with a dark scowl.

“You claim you do not wish to share your evening, but I see beyond that, you pathetic waste of Sin… You wield the ability to share Sin’s gifts with as much of your fellow man as possible, yet you hoard it for your own gain.”

“I d’nno what yer talkin’ abo-GAGH!”

The man’s words were drowned out by new cries that were accented by the sound of cracking bone as Malgerius’ claws only closed tighter around his knuckles.

“You know. I don’t need to explain the Holy Sin to you, I can smell it on you… yet you waste its limitless potential, for what? Some miniscule amount of self-gratification? Pathetic.”

The Hellfire Paladin reared back and with a swift extension of his arm, sent the round man flying across the tavern and through the large window leading out into the street. Cries from the tavern residents were mixed with the sound of shattering glass and moans of pain drifting in from the street as the Paladin walked forward and stepped through the broken window.

The noble was lying in the middle of the Bren street, curled around his shattered hand as he tried to spit a string of obscenities that simply devolved into guttural sounds from shock.

The Paladin ignored the squeals of the pig before him and plucked the heavy coin-purse from his belt, before he turned and tossed it to the red-haired woman who stared from the tavern’s shattered window. She caught the bag more from a simple reflex he assumed more than anything and the soldier turned back to the man who was trying to crawl into the shadows across the street.

The weight of Malgerius’ boot pressed to his spine halted all efforts and the Beacon of Sin knelt forward, the full weight of his armor laid upon the man’s back.

“Death is better than what you deserve, a cleansing of a rotten apple from a promising harvest… but I will extend mercy where the Light does not. You have tested the freedoms Sin can grant… now you will grant those under your employ that same freedom. The Holy Sin’s blessings are nothing if gorged on alone… do you understand?”

Another squeal that was likely meant to be some form of words was the Paladin’s response and he deemed it adequate as he removed his boot from the man’s back.

The coin purse still clutched to her chest, the red-haired woman appeared at Malgerius’ side, her voice quivering as she bowed her head.

“T-t-thank you, sir, but I could’ve e-e-endured my employment w-w-without your a-a-aid…”

“I’m sure you could’ve, your resolve is like iron already… but I am not one to leave those in need. Your employer should be more… generous… now that we have spoken. So please, take that gold and get yourself a room somewhere in the tavern. That is but a taste of the freedom coming your way now.”

The Paladin’s heart ached as the woman tried to form words of thanks or protest, he couldn’t tell, before she simply burst into tears and wrapped her arms around his form. Before he could respond, she sprinted back into the tavern and up towards the rooms from the sound of her shoes against hard-wood steps.

“So yer… not g’nnna kill me then… what now?” The round man said as he sat up, his shattered hand cradled in the elbow of his other arm.

“Now, you’re going to get up and pay to repair the window you broke. Then you are going to explain to me what this battle and bloodshed is that you mentioned. If there are more like you present, I am going to be busy here in Bren.”


A cold drink and some ice later, the noble reluctantly explained the glory of the Elemental Championships that had drawn him to Bren in the first place, with the promise of a god-granted wish as the grand prize. He planned to enter Lymina, the red-haired woman he’d traveled with, as a contestant and earn his place as a King of the City. She had explained that this plan was doomed to failure in the first place since she wielded no magical power whatsoever.

Before he ensured that Lymina and her “lord” were in agreement on their new employment contract the following day, the Paladin made his way through the streets towards the Arena. Much to his surprise, the application process was extremely smooth. A woman with flaming hair accepted his entry and directed him towards the place in which he would do battle. Gladiatorial combat was not usually something he had experience in but Malgerius decided it was no different than the times he’d fought alone versus the Light’s forces.

As he climbed a set of seemingly endless stairs towards his violent destination, he caught sight of a torch on the wall whose flames seemed to dance more than its siblings. The blazing heat swayed from side to side and as he passed, before it almost leaned forward out of its own embers. From within, a horrifyingly beautiful pair of eyes seemed to smile at him before they disappeared back into the depths of the fire.

It seemed the Matron of Flame approved of his goal here, he thought with a proud smile. A wish from the Gods here could expedite things, of course.

After what seemed like an eternity with his own thoughts and the crackle of the hellfire in the head of his mace, the Paladin emerged into a circular platform, its floor carved from a gorgeous marble. Before he could take in more of the details of his newest battlefield, the floor shook beneath his boots and a brilliant combination of gold and silver seemed to lift the arena’s platform from the surface of Bren at the sound of a Gong.

Malgerius blinked blazing eyes a few times as structures formed out of the collecting mists around him, a gorgeous display of beautiful arches and ivory columns. As the Hellfire soldier paused, his breath held in case another dazzling show of power was shown, the gong rang out again. Wind, sudden and with purpose, cut across the arena and pulled Malgerius’ hood from his head as easily as it toppled the lovely architecture around him.

As quickly as it had begun, the brief moment of destruction ceased, leaving him and other figures he was now picking out of the golden fog surrounded by a newly-born ruin. Above, a seemingly endless heaven stretched in every direction and below… nothing. The Beacon of Sin chuckled to himself as he squinted up at the heavens above, the stands of viewers visible on his peripherals.

“So… you wish for me to display the power of Sin and Hellfire right on your doorstep, then? I will graciously oblige.”

“And so begins the Trial of the Ruins. Fight or Die, adventures, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”

Other voices had rapidly joined the sound of the trial’s beginning, though their source was shrouded by the golden fog that insisted on its own presence, much like the Light itself. How typical. Instead of worrying about those at the farthest distance, Malgerius drew his mace from its sling on his back and whispered a spark of his blazing soul into its skull-shaped head. Hellfire burst from within the shattered cranium at his command and the Paladin turned to stride towards his right.

The fog refused to allow visibility from any great distance, so he would forge ahead until he found his first clear target, his might ready to be unleashed upon them. With any amount of luck, they would provide a far more fulfilling battle than the fat lord had the night prior and he would make the Hells proud as he tore a wish from the Gods themselves.
DF MQ AQW  Post #: 5
7/27/2023 23:00:48   
Oddball
Member

”Dear Diary.
It’s been a few days since I last got some time to write in you, can you forgive me? I’ll make it up to you, promise! Coach has been driving us a lot harder in recent days, so I’ve been coming home hungry and exhausted… I know we’ve got that important track meet in a couple of weeks, but Coach has never acted like this before. I dunno, it could just be stress? We’re competing against the regional champs this time after all.
Well, if nothing else, I have faith in the team to pull through, so I’ve gotta be in top form to keep up with them.
Yours Faithfully.
Parralia Anita.

A grunt escaped the girl as she pulled herself up through an open window, pausing for just a moment to check if any infected were nearby. As expected, there was one at the end of the hallway, but its back was facing Parralia. With a little luck, she’d be able to move on without grabbing their attention. This hospital had been on her mind for the last few days, consuming her thoughts with the promise of the small chance of finding still usable medical supplies. She was running low, and her magic wasn’t suited for healing…
Ironic, considering her status as a magical girl who vowed to heal the planet.

Making sure her gaze didn’t fall on the infected for too long, Parralia inched forward, timing her footsteps with the soft rise and fall of the figure’s shoulders. A bead of sweat ran down the side of Parralia’s face, the girl having made her way to one of the many doors that the hallway had to offer. Quickly checking to see if the door was unlocked and could be opened, Parralia turned the handle and gently pushed an inch or two. Peering inside, a figure facing the back wall began to twitch as Parralia’s gaze caught it for a brief moment. With a silent gasp, the girl closed the door as quietly as she had opened it. She’d avoid that room for now.

Shifting her attention back to the infected in the corridor, Parralia’s heart skipped a beat as the space that was once occupied by an enemy had suddenly found itself void of said enemy. The girl took a careful, quiet step backwards as she frantically scanned the hallway for any sign of the infected. A second step back eventually followed the first with Parralia half expecting to back up into something wet and fleshy. She couldn’t stop the heavy, relief-filled sigh that escaped her when her retreat wasn’t impeded; she didn’t need another incident so soon after the previous one.



The Sun had long since disappeared beyond the horizon, and Parralia had found very minimal supplies in the dilapidated remains of this once proud bastion of health. The girl found herself sighing as she placed her back against the far wall of a room she had deemed safe for the night, slowly sliding down as her legs finally gave out. A small break in the room’s torn curtains allowed the moon to grace Parralia with its borrowed light, dimly illuminating a small section of the area she was sitting in.
Reaching into her pocket, the girl pulled a small, bound, case and setit down at her side. Freeing the object from its shackles with a dexterous flick of her fingers, Parralia carefully opened the case and pulls a photo from inside. She brought the small object close to her chest, a half-smile slowly creeping onto her face as she stares down at the photo.

Drip

A small drop of water splashed against the unprotected photo, followed by an immediate second. The girl slowly brought the photo tight against her chest as she choked out a quiet sob, choosing to pull her knees up and bury her face in them… At least this way, she’d make the least noise and lessen the risk of being found in her state of weakness.

Today was the day that marked the first anniversary of the day the world fell… and the day its sole protector had made her presence known, promising those who were still of a sane mind that she would be their guiding Light…


She would ask them to cast their fears aside, to put their faith in her.


Because it was her duty.




Parralia awoke to the distressing sight of an unfamiliar room, the half-awake girl scrambling to her feet as quick as she could so she could, at least, defend herself against any incoming hostile targets. In a flash of black and dark red, Parralia flourished her axe before swinging it down to her side, her other hand had been brought up to her chest in case she needed to transform in case of an emergency.

Silence fell as she began to take in her surroundings, a pristine looking lounge lit only by a couple of candles scattered around the room, and a small fireplace in the corner. Just in front of the fire sat a pair of large expensive looking chairs, with one currently occupied by a suit-wearing figure.
“No need for hostility, Par, we’re friends here. Right?”


“That… voice. Is it you?”

“The one and only. Come on, take a seat, kiddo.”

They were right, the last time she had a conversation with this specific individual was the
possession… The event responsible for Parralia gaining her magic powers in the first place.
With less caution, she approached the figure, taking a spot in the seat opposite them. They offered a glass with a foul smelling drink, one that she politely turned down.
“More for me, I suppose.”

With a chuckle they placed the glass on the table beside them, one that Parralia swore wasn’t there when she walked over, before leaning in towards her.

“Can’t stay for long I’m afraid, important business, you know what it’s like.”

The girl simply nodded, her eyes fixated on the grey skinned devil that sat in front of her.

“I’ve got some good news for you. But there’s a catch.”

“Okay..? Lay it on me.”

“I’ve caught wind of something happening in a far-off plane, a tournament of sorts. They say if you win, these “Elemental Lords” grant you a wish.”

“..A…a wish?”

It was the devil’s turn to nod their head, knowing their words had struck a chord deep within Parralia.

“Your very own wish.”

“..I could save them… I could save everyone”

“I know it’s a lot to place on your shoulders, considering your position… But you’re the only hope this world has left. If anyone can take the crown? It’s you, kiddo.”


Parralia sat in silent contemplation, brows furrowed in thought as her friends’ words bounced around in her brain. She could save them all… She could save them

“..Will you defend this planet while I’m gone?”

“I cannot promise I’ll be as diligent as you, but you have my word.”

“Then. Tell me, tell me how I get to this tournament.”



Taking a deep breath, Parralia boldly stepped into the portal that had been made for her, pocketing the small device that would bring her home after she was done. She had asked her devilish friend if she could be placed somewhere discreetly, as she was against suddenly appearing in the middle of a busy town square. True to their word, Parralia had found herself in an undisclosed backstreet, far away from the typical gathering spots of the streets of Bren.

Still, hearing a loud gasp as she stepped through caused her to whip around, spotting a young man with his mouth agape. Before he could stammer out a sentence, Parralia had stepped forwards and placed her finger against his lips, shushing him quietly.
“You never saw me, okay?”

Before she allowed a response, she took off into a sprint in the opposite direction, heading closer to the center of the city.

If she could be honest with herself, just for a moment? The city of Bren was overwhelming… but awe-inspiring. Her hometown was small, and she never had time to visit the big city before everything was reduced to ruins… So seeing a large group of people together in one place? Living in harmony?

It burned a hole in her heart.

If only the madness hadn’t spread… would her world be like this one? Would she get to hear the cacophony of sounds that followed a rush of people, all just living their lives, like they always had?

She remembered the words of her Father, on the day she left home.

”Tis a perilous path you walk. Death lurks in the dark, and is the sole promise that awaits at journey’s end. You will tremble with terror. You will weep tears of anger and despair…
But do not avert your eyes. See your life for what it is. Then, will you see how the hardships make you strong.”

Parralia took a deep breath, feeling that familiar sting of tears ball up at the corners of her eyes once again as she stared, motionless, at the city of Bren. This is the life she was fighting to give her world… the life that she promised them on that fateful day. Even with the weight of her world on her shoulders… even if she were alone in her fight… she couldn’t hesitate now, not with so much at stake.

Wiping that tear away, she cleared her throat, and stepped towards a group of individuals crowding around a stall.
“Excuse me! Sorry for bothering you when you’re browsing. Could you point me in the direction of the tournament signup?”



Parralia slowly crept into the signup hall, taking her time to marvel at the building’s beautiful interior before a voice snapped her out of her stupor.
“Excuse me miss, are you looking for something?”
She looked towards the source of the voice, behind the counter stood a woman in her mid-thirties, hair tied up into a bun with glasses neatly slotted into place across the bridge of her nose… and the deepest, most purple, eyebags she had ever seen on another being.
“Oh uh. Yes! I’m here to sign up for the championships?”
“As expected, your name please?”
“Parralia Anita. Two R’s, One L.
“Okay, very good. And the element?”
“Uh.. Darkness! I guess.”
She whispered that last part to herself, hoping that the receptionist lady didn’t catch it, almost cheering a little when it appeared that she hadn’t.
“Okay, everything seems to be in order. Good luck out there, miss.”
“Oh, uh, thank you! I hope you can get some rest after this hype dies down.”



Parralia stood in front of a large archway, visibly nervous, but with an unmistakable fire behind her eyes. She was ready for this, she had to fight to win…

Parralia took her first steps from under the archway, taking a long deep breath to enjoy the crisp air. Clean air wasn’t very accessible in her world, what with the world enveloped in the madness’ haze. She took this brief calm to bask in the warm sunlight, a soft smile tugging at the edges of her lips.

If the sudden loud reverberation of the gong hadn’t broken Parralia out of her stupor, the floor suddenly shifting under her feet definitely did. The girl steadied herself as the platform rose, mindlessly tugging on the sleeve of her jacket to keep herself occupied.

The scene that played out before Parralia was nothing short of absolutely breathtaking. The girl marveled at the palace of ivory before her. Tall spiraled columns pierced through the skies above them and beautiful clear water ran under her feet and fell to the land below.

This image wouldn’t last forever though, as a second gong sounded, and all hell broke loose. A familiar scene played out in front of the girl; buildings falling to ruin, the ground underneath them cracking into fragments. It was like she was being taken back to that day, the screams of her peers repeating in her ears like a deafening siren.

Only the sudden booming voices echoing across the arena brought her attention back to the matter at hand, and the girl stared up into the vast sky as she concentrated on what was being said.
”And so begins the Trial of the Ruins. Fight or Die, adventurers, but let the Elemental Championships begin!”

Okay… First order of business, transform.

The golden haze surrounding the battlefield made getting a good read on the other people in the arena a much more difficult task, but Parralia made a mental note of the positions of those around her. A regal looking woman stood at her left, but had turned her back almost instantly. Well, better for her, going under the radar for as long as possible would lead to a safer transformation.

Breaking out into a sprint, Parralia adeptly vaulted over parts of the rubble, making her way towards the center of the arena. She caught the imposing figure of a fighter clad in plate armour, wielding a sinister looking mace. If possible, she’d like to avoid confrontation with them.

“Witness!” She called out, bringing her wrist up towards her chest, the small bracelet on her wrist beginning to emit a strange, black light.
“For I shall be the shining star to vanquish despair!”
The light enveloped the girl, bathing her in the ominous black light that had originated from her bracelet.

In a brilliant, yet eerie, display of light, the girl underwent a full transformation. Her hair now fell to her shoulders, and lightened to a brown. Her baggy attire was forgotten, replaced with a long, black poofy dress, with a pair of long heels taking the place of her combat boots.
She opened her eyes, a set of dark red staring out at seemingly nothing before she slowly twirled in place, showing herself off to the rest of the fighters.

“Your worries, your sorrows, you need not keep them buried inside any longer! Share them with me, for Hope has descended!”

With a flash of black and red, the Magical Girl twirled her battleaxe between her fingers, a gem that lay between the axe’s twin heads sparking to life.

It was her turn.

It was time to show them her resolve.
AQ DF AQW Epic  Post #: 6
7/28/2023 11:59:31   
Kooroo
Member

China clinked as the Director set her cup back on to its saucer, and then gestured opposite her desk.
“Please,” Yvelle said, with a smile, ”have a seat. Let’s make this quick.”

Devon looked down, noting the luscious, cardinal-red upholstery and then sat with a slight squelch. If his boss had the slightest bit of concern for her chair, then she kept an amazing poker face. Just like how she’d had no reaction when Devon had trudged into the office, trekking trails of blood and fleshy bits all over her floor and rug.

Even Victor had something for that, gracing him with the slightest arch of an eyebrow from the far wall of Yvelle’s office. An unusual display for the amber-eyed Head of Security, a dour chap who could only display two forms of emotion—boredom and anger.

At the same time, though, it didn’t really surprise him. The Director of Administration’s Executive Arm didn’t seem to care about a whole lot besides the Three Es; Efficiency, Effectiveness, and Efficacy. He’d occasionally joked to his squad mates that they should ask her to add ‘Employeebenefits’ as well, but the joke seemed even less funny now that there wasn’t anyone else alive that remembered it.

“I’m sure you’re aware, but most places require a formal document to announce an intent to resign,” Yvelle explained, bridging her fingers.

That drew a wry grin from him. “I would’ve sent you a text, but I lost my phone when my team exploded,” he said, gesturing at himself.

“And I’m sure they’re all very sorry about that, wherever they are. If you have a complaint you’d like to raise, then you may take this up with Personnel Resources.”

One of the many irks that he had with the Director was that she never seemed to be joking, despite the absurdness of what she occasionally said. He took a breath and counted internally, dousing the flickering embers of rage that threatened to flare up.

Heedless of Devon’s displeasure, Yvelle continued. “Unfortunately, The Executive Arm is a touch different. I’m presuming you don’t remember the full terms of your employment?”

And just like that, the anger was coming back. “There were over two hundred pages to that contract—”

“Two-hundred and fifty-four pages, all of which are there for a reason,” Yvelle airily stated, tilting her head slightly. Devon was starting to feel a bit like a painting, with the way she was looking at him. A very annoyed and frustrated painting that wanted to shoot the appraiser inspecting him.

His would-be critic stood and leaned in slightly, despite Devon invoking the appearance and scent of someone who regularly bathed in minced meat. “And as noted on page one-hundred and seventy-two, the minimum length for a Standard Administrator that has managed to survive and/or pass the one-year probationary period is seven-hundred and fifty years.”

One part of him wanted to glare and ask how many agents managed to pass probations without surviving them. Another wanted to dash Yvelle’s pot of tea across her pretty little nose and shoot her out the window before Victor could defenestrate him too.

Luckily, the third and most sensible part was in charge of the other two and it had decided the best response was to not respond, and just get fired next time.

The Director smiled and then turned to face her window of the city, hands clasped behind her back. Dusk was falling outside and the various lights and beacons were beginning to flicker on, transforming the land below into a kaleidoscope of stars. Devon briefly wondered how long the trip down would be if he did go with the shooting route, but shelved the idea again.

He pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open to check the time, but the movement had completely seized when he’d last activated it. Judging by the hands, he’d slowed time down and watched his colleagues come apart at 3:54.

Damn.

The ex-soldier pocketed it and leant back in his seat, making sure to really spread the gore around.

Still, there was one potential avenue he could explore. “I’m going to guess that the terms for those ‘higher stations’ you suggested aren’t any shorter?”

“One thousand for both Exigency and Expurgation, two thousand for Tax and Debt Collection. Nine-hundred for all other Level Three positions,” she replied without turning back.

Or not.

He exhaled and started to stand, pushing the chair out. “Guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I? I’ll wait for your call tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow’s the weekend,” Yvelle stated, turning round to face him.

“That’s never stopped you before,” Devon answered, walking by Victor, and straight out the door.

He could practically feel Yvelle’s smile on him, even after the elevator slammed shut.


It was almost midnight by the time Devon returned back to his apartment. Following an especially thorough shower and some preparations for the probable work day tomorrow, he was on the verge of collapsing onto the mattress. The day had been tiring enough, but the meeting with Yvelle had drained him beyond compare.

That was even without considering the quick-but-horrible deaths the rest of his new Team had suffered. The repetitive and pointless deaths had admittedly started to get to him a few years ago, though he was surprised it had taken this long to affect his sleep. While he didn’t think he needed therapy—yet—he wasn’t sure if he trusted any of the quacks that the Executive Arm outsourced their Employee Healthcare to.

Perhaps a promotion was the right path? The pay wasn’t much better and the hours were just as long—or worse, in the case of Exigency—but the work was relatively independent. No one else to watch out for, just like the old days. Just him and the assigned work order.

Although… Devon didn’t have any details, but rumours had it that the tasks that Expurgation Agents undertook made Incident and Fallout Cleanup work look savoury. Perhaps he’d ask Ayra—

The Admin paused as the vestiges of a distant memory came to him. “A way out…?” he murmured, just as she’d said to him.

He set aside the shirt he’d been in the middle of ironing and went to look for his mobile. Then Devon remembered he didn’t have a mobile anymore, so he pulled on a coat and made for his vehicle.


It took him thirty minutes to make it to Ayra’s place, despite the empty but rain slicked roads, and another ten before she actually let him in. After much knocking, some negotiating and—finally—a touch of bribing, Devon was sitting in her plush-filled living room, sipping hot water whilst sharing a couch with an oversized, navy-blue toy toad.

The Expurgator was a woman of above average height, with black hair, ashen eyes, and eyebags that seemed especially prominent tonight. She was glaring at him from the chair opposite, dressed in a fluffy white gown whilst hugging what seemed to be a… raw chicken torso with a pair of beady eyes.

Why?

‘Why’ was the question that came to mind, but he felt it wouldn’t be good to press her on that unless he wanted Ayra to throw him out. So he went with a sensible question instead.

“When?” he asked, setting his cup down. ”When is it?”

There wasn’t a response for a moment, just more tense glaring… until she sighed and looked away. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Devon frowned, in both . “I thought you said this was an annual thing.”

“It is.”

He grinned and clapped his hands together, spreading his arms wide. “Wonderful. I’m so amazing.”

“Lucker,” she muttered darkly, hugging the chicken tighter.

“Luck correlates with skill, everyone knows that," he shrugged, and leant back against the toad plush. It slowly flattened and let out a high, warbling squeak as it deflated.

Fascinating.

“So,” Devon continued, his eyes still glued to the stuffed toy, ”how do we get there?”

“Dunno.”

“‘Dunno’?” He tore his gaze away and faced her again, frown returning. “I thought this was some super-grand event you’ve been looking forward to watching all year?”

“Looking forward to watching one day,” Ayra angrily corrected. “How the hell do you expect me to get there? By walking? I take the bloody train to work every day. Aren’t you the one with the fancy car?”

“An extremely fancy car that goes nought to one-hundred in under three seconds, but is incapable of travelling under water, through time or—most importantly—cross realms.”

“Your watch freezes time though.”

Devon pulled out his watch, checked how late it was, and then turned its face to Ayra. “This slows time, but it can’t teleport us at will.”

“Sounds like you got scammed then,” she smirked. “Someone I’ve met has a watch that can do both.”

Well, that sounded promising. “So just call them.”

“What, on the phone?”

“Sure. Or you can try shouting really loudly, but I think that’d just get you suspended without pay.”

It was his colleague’s turn to frown. “You think I’ll be able to get someone that can cross-realms at will by phone? At midnight? And on the weekend?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“On what grounds?”

“Ayra, I know how you love to lament on how unlucky you are and how you can never get those ‘characters’, or ‘cards’, or whatever from those phone games you’re so fond of—”

“Rate up is a lie,” she interjected, worryingly quickly.

“—but even you have to get lucky sometimes.” The Admin concluded, folding his arms. “Besides, I’ve got enough skill for everyone.”

Ayra muttered something darkly again, then pulled out her phone and dialled in some numbers. She didn’t do anything else for a bit after and just stared blankly at the screen for a while. Just as Devon was about to check for stroke or aneurysm, she hit dial and turned on the speaker.

The phone rang once.


Then twice.



A third time.




A fourth rin—

There was a crackle and a sputter of static as someone on the other end picked up.

The Administrator smiled and spread his arms in triumph again. “Skill.”


The first task for the first day was supposed to have been a simple one. A Practical Orientation, Yvelle had called it. Everyone started off the same way—join up with your team and just do whatever the Squad Leader told him to do. Nothing he wasn’t used to. If the situation went awry, then he could do whatever he felt was appropriate, so long as it didn’t break any laws or regulations. Easy-peasy, right?

“Easy-peasy,” he repeated sardonically, as he pulled the kitchen knife free and let the last cook slump to the floor.

Dropping the knife, Devon glanced around, watching and listening for any movement. Nope, nothing but a steady drip, drip. Stepping over the bodies, he moved over to the unconscious survivor, who was strapped to a counter in the middle of the room.

Tracking down the kidnappers to this kitchen hadn’t been too hard, since the idiots had forgotten to toss out the S.L’s phone. Despite tracking that free handicap, however, he’d arrived outside just in time to watch them begin dismembering the last member of his new squad.

Granted, he hadn’t found any bodies yet, so the others weren’t officially KIA. But there was a lot of red all over the room, and the number of wrapped plastic sheets matched the number of missing personnel.

It wouldn’t be long before the lass joined followed after them, judging from her paleness and the amount of blood dripping off the table.

He pressed the speed dial on his phone and threw it to the side, then rushed off to look for something to use as a tourniquet.


When he woke up the next morning, Devon was feeling considerably less ‘skillful’ than he had the night prior. In tandem with the dismal hygiene of the Inn they were staying at, the room quality was subpar, to say the least. His mattress seemed to have been modelled after a camel’s back, the bathroom would have felt cramped to a garden gnome, and the dresser drawers jammed, impeding his efforts at getting dressed. Coupled together with the wonderful dream he’d had—for which Devon partially blamed the mattress—almost made him wish he could call in sick. Or alternatively, “just wait ‘til next year”.

But another year under Yvelle’s thumb? No thanks.

He didn’t even want to think about trying the breakfast, but Ayra had beaten him downstairs. There she was, leaning back in her seat, her feet up on the table and phone in hand, at a wonky table that belonged in a surrealist art piece.

“Morning,” He grunted as he sat, tightening his tie.“Sleep well?”

The Expurgator didn’t look up from her phone. She was dressed in her working clothes—black jacket, charcoal top, onyx trousers and sable boots—a perfect match for her mood, as usual. “The mattress started moving after I pulled the covers off, so I opted to start on my dailies instead.”

“Fair. What’s that?” he asked, nodding at the plate next to her feet. Honestly, he was surprised that she managed to get reception, even with her disgustingly expensive phone plan.

“Guess.”

“A degenerate’s attempt at bangers and mash was next to her and a cup of dirt?” Devon could practically feel the innkeeper’s stare on him, but he ignored it.

“Close. Dig in.”

“Are you trying to off me before I get into my Arena?”

A shrug, then more fingers tapping across the glowing screen. “So long as I get your car, I don’t really care when or how you cash in.”

He pulled out his watch and checked it. Quarter to twelve, with the moonphase window showing the sun at its peak. “That’s marvellous, that is. Well, shall we get going?”

She didn’t reply for a moment, then pocketed her mobile and got to her feet. Ayra paid the tab, then led the way out, weaving almost robotically between the labyrinth of streets, nooks and alleyways. It was only after they’d stopped outside the Stadium that Devon noticed she hadn’t brought her sword.

“Not bringing your little friend?” the Administrator queried, nodding at her back.

“Nope,” she replied, missing nary a beat.

“Not worried about a riot breaking out? What if the locals get a little bit caught up in the moment, with all of the bloodshed and all? Think they’ve got signs, saying ‘enjoy the games, but don’t join in the action’?”

“Not particularly, no,” Ayra muttered, shooting him a look that was equal parts suspicion and irritation. “I thought you used to be some big-shot Special Ops Soldier Man? You’re acting like you’ve never set a foot in an Outer Realm before.”

Devon nodded in affirmation. “Yes, well. You’ve got to understand that every single one of those trips was positively filled with extravagant amounts of extreme violence. You can’t blame me for thinking that these locals might get a little excited.”

She side-eyed him and said nothing, then held out her hand. “Keys. For safekeeping.”

“Just for safekeeping,” he echoed, dropping them into her palm.

“Of course. Well, off you go then Mister Firelord.”

“Firepower, you mean. ‘Dante Firepower’, according to the Rego form,” Devon responded, unsheathing his sword and flicking the safety off.

“Sure. All that firepower; that whole…. gun of it,” Ayra said and walked off. “Have fun, chum.”

“Cheers, enjoy the show,” he said dryly.

Now, where was he headed? Sky, was it? That probably meant u—

“Wait.”

Devon turned to Ayra, who’d stopped walking. The Expurgator seemed to have more to say, but she didn’t turn, nor did she start walking again.

He checked his watch again. Two minutes left. He was going to be late.

Just as Devon was about to walk off, Ayra finally spoke.

“Don’t die.”

The ex-soldier grinned. “I’ll try.”


The Arena he arrived at was, simply put, grand. Which was saying something, because from what he’d skimmed, there was also a Grand Arena.

Marble arches, shining columns, and the gentle murmur of cascading waterfalls all around them made for a disgustingly opulent display.

This most definitely did not seem Sky-ey in the slightest, no sir.

Devon made to spin on his heel, but then another gong rang out and everything went to hell. Columns shattered, arches splintered and fell away. The ground shook and cracked, throwing up clouds of shimmering dust? Or was that cloud?

He steadied himself and waited for his bones to stop shaking, sword in his right hand… and watch in left? Must’ve pulled it out instinctively. Nerves, probably. How amateurish.

Steady. Deep breaths.

The Admin inhaled and held it, then blew out and stowed his pocket watch.

It was only then that the MCs spoke, their voices echoing and dispersing any doubts about his map reading skills.

Okay, so entering the right Arena. Good start. So next…

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice—female and pretentious— calling from within the fog, offering…. What, a parlay? A pardon? An employment offer?

Lords, no. What?

The pluck of some people, gosh.

Exasperated, he blew out and started vaguely centreward, sword rising as he walked, aimed towards the vapour-shrouded source of the voice. Devon waited and listened, letting the lass’ speech flow in through one ear and out the other.

Then she—no, Her Majesty—shut up and he gave his response, blade bucking in hand with a violent report.

The Administrator picked up his pace and reloaded, the hints of a grin pulling at his lips.

And away we go.
AQW Epic  Post #: 7
7/28/2023 23:01:34   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


 Queen Lyre cocked her head as the giant spoke. A language unknown, but clearly speech of defiance. A head to be bowed, then; respect could be earned.

“Your blood, I shed.”

Lyre laughed, a bell ringing above the din, and tossed aside the chunk of marble in her hand. The giant could communicate! “So it shall be.”

She stepped forwards, arms spread in welcome and voice low as magic and melody burst from perfect lips. The giant’s arm snapped, and twin quills sailed for the Queen. She smirked. They were simple feathers; their flight made not from the elegance of magic or the efficiency of technology, but with the sheer brutality of might. She traced their twined trails with her eyes. Her lips drifted out a verse of language unknown to her, unknown to her mother, and unknown to the world. Another floating step forwards brought her gliding across the ground like a specter in time with her tune. To drift from the first knife’s path, a dip to the left. To drift from the second’s-

Bang.

A loud sound, and unacceptably dirty. Likely a firearm of sorts, akin to the tools of lands that considered themselves “advanced”. Only she had the poise to speak, thus the shot must be for her. How rude. How brash. She could not acknowledge a coward’s tool, so instead she would simply grant the giant what the giant wished. With a deep bow, she greeted the second quill and gave no second thought to the bolt that soared overhead. Warrior’s feather drove directly into her shoulder, blooming a crimson flower and refreshing the paint upon her dress. She screamed a final, mysterious word in joy and in pain, and The Song began.

It woke. It woke! Oh what a joy to greet the sky and the blood and the storm!
Upon wings of sound it swirls, it loops, it dances ‘round Queen and ‘round prey. What was it to do? What was it to see?
Oh what to sing?
Oh what to sing!?
Sing of memories!
Of grandmother’s tree, watered and burgeoned upon lands that become one!
Of mother’s art, built from the bones of young and old, fearful and devote!
Of daughter
Of daughter
Of daughter
Of-


Queen Lyre strode forwards, her voice now deafening as verse after verse of unknown beauty flowed from her lips. She twirled as she plucked the feather from her shoulder, The Song faltering for but a breath at the gasp of pain. The fresh blood reflected in her admiring eye as it dripped down her fingers. Her knights always said she looked best in red. She had let the giant shed royal blood, just as desired. It was only right that Lyre receive a subject’s offering in kind. The coward who shot through the fog deserved not a single note of her time.

Her gaze locked upon her foe’s form, tasting every detail like sweet grapes. Blue eyes fell on the giant’s intact arm, shifting between it and its twin of peculiar bone. Her brows knit. She found such asymmetry unsightly. Between breathless verses, Lyre unconsciously licked her lips, anticipation swelling for a pleasure unknown. Her arm swept up, her face held high as she let her loudest note soar over the ruins.

Sing! Of daughter’s first song! A wooden arm torn from a dummy’s body!
A prideful parent and a prodigy found!

Color inverted and dropped, aiming to cleave the arm from the giant and align present to past. Without waiting for the first spear to land, she dipped, a leg twirling over her head as she spun in place. Low as she went, her crown did not budge an inch, though a single drop of blood slipped from the steel to the marbles below. More droplets seeped from her shoulder as she hurled down the stained quill and let a second note loose.

Sing! Of daughter’s infallible rule! Crowds gathering beneath her pristine gaze!
Her bewitching voice promising to make all as beautiful, as splendid, as perfect as she!
And spare not a verse for those that fail to attain her glow!


The sky split and dove and lunged for the giant’s shoulder, pledging to give the warrior a wound to match its Queen’s. Her prey stumbled forwards, and Queen Lyre backpedaled to keep the giant at the edge of her influence. The Queen laughed with joy as she saw purple scatter from her foe’s shoulder. She gave a mocking curtsy as she called out, her words in time with her song. “Your blood, I shed!”

For a beat, her vision blurred and she stumbled, dizziness overtaking her. She brought a hand to her head and noticed not the red that clung to her touch, nausea flooding her senses as she cursed her flippantness. She graced this place only out of duty. To allow herself to display such improper form cast disgrace upon her name and The Song alike. She threw her arm out, banishing the cacophonic memories of her wild acts, and reassessed. The giant’s arm remained attached, so the first blow had failed. Thus, there had been no second blow, and that had not been her first. Her first blow had drawn blood and knocked the giant off-balance. So Lyre raised her voice and sang once more, eyes honed in on her prey, posture held regal and straight. The second blow.

Sing! Of daughter’s first kill! Mother’s coaxing words, child’s desire to please!
A sinner run through as if ‘pon a spit! And that poisonous, invisible grin!


A final spear thrusted down, eager to pin the giant to the floor in an oh-so-familiar act. Queen Lyre caught her breath on a rest, allowing The Song to sing itself while she indulged in the moment for just a moment. She oh-so-loved to sing.

Such a shame, she bemoaned, that she knew not what she sang of.

Post #: 8
7/30/2023 2:01:11   
Dronier Ravelin
Member

Kastug slowly stepped forward into the hazy golden fog that poured throughout the arena. His eyes darted back and forth, drinking in every minute detail they could, his nostrils flared with activity, his ears hunting for even the slightest of sounds.

It was a sharp contrast to the hunting of his homeland. There was no prey here. Every single opponent he would face was a trained warrior in their own right. He could take no risks, afford no faltering.

To his right, the deafening, banging crash of an attack rang out, and the briefest whiff of sulfur played its way across the frost-man’s nose. It echoed through his skull like the worst of a thunderstorm, his teeth almost echoing the noise around in his skull.

He instinctively hunched down from the noise, careful to avoid drawing closer to its source as he advanced. Whatever the attack was, it certainly did not seem magical in nature. He knew the southerners bore many strange devices, perhaps this was one of them? Either way, he had no desire to discover what it was, lest he be on the receiving end of another unusual attack.

To the right, shouting, which itself evolved into a dirge echoing out across the battleground. The lyrics seemed to carry with them the praise of some chosen figure, a worship song of some sort? Perhaps one of the combatants had entered with the intent of winning favor with more than one liege?

With it came the familiar rush of air, sounds of impact, signaling battle had begun in earnest. While the battle before him was presented as an open melee, he had neither the desire nor the fervor to involve himself in what appeared to be a much more personal engagement than one would’ve expected.

Forward he continued, allowing the battle at his right to take its own place, resolve its own course. Instead, Kastug pressed forward, the source of a new sound drawing to him deeper into the haze. It was shouting, a voice calling for all to bear witness. It seemed unusually optimistic for someone engaged in potentially-lethal combat against unseen foes. An open challenge in these conditions was either very brave, or very foolish.

Alongside it came a bizarre light, cutting through the gilded fog like an ominous beacon, calling Kastug forth to what would be his first target. It filled him with a sense of cruel unease, as if some corrupting force was mixed in with the light, tempting and challenging him in equal measure. It felt wholly unnatural, anathema to the world the giant-kin was familiar with.

Stepping through the mist, the source of the bizarre lightshow was finally visible to him in earnest, a woman garbed in an elaborate black dress, bearing an axe nearly as tall as her. As she came into view, there was something about her that Kastug felt was simply… wrong.

Wisps of what he could only assume to be an evil influence seemed to permeate this girl, foul power that sought to maintain influence over her. He knew not what sort of power held dominion over the woman, but he was determined to engage it, drive its influence from the presence of the arena.

Taking the chance once she came into sight, Kastug centered himself, a deep inhale channeling the heart of his power, before he unleashed it all as a surging war cry. It was a simple, brutish roar of force and power, calling upon the very core of his nature, his people, and his ancestry.

As if conjured from within his very being, thin shards of ice tore through the air before him in a furious stream of cold, needle-like tips puncturing through the air as they soared at their intended target. As he finished his roaring cry, Kastug would begin to charge behind it, eager to follow up his surprise assault by drawing the target into melee.
Post #: 9
7/30/2023 22:53:46   
Apocalypse
Member

Vosta hummed to herself as she carved the frost bear’s carcass. The Jarlman slid through the beast’s abdomen like parchment, spilling the innards with ease. She gave a sharp whistle, and her carrion crow descended from above to feast upon the discarded entrails. The two worked in tandem - one eating his fill, the other stockpiling for later - as the day pressed on.

Neither was the first to break their silent arrangement.

“A fine display as ever, Crow-Daughter. A great hunter to surpass even your father.”

Vosta turned, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. Standing on the nearest hill stood a Jotnari dressed in robes of moss greens and deepest blacks accentuated by many-colored feathers running along their lapel and down each sleeve. The warclad raised a hand to block the sunlight radiating from behind their unexpected guest.

“You flatter me, crowspeaker.” Junral gave a nod and approached, wistful steps almost carrying them over the ground rather than touching it. Neither smudge nor wrinkle marred their clothes, and their hair was swept back in a multitude of orderly braids. Vosta wiped the Jarlman clean and sheathed it before clasping arms with Junral. “Heed caution in speaking such glories in front of my father - do not plant the seed of envy in his ears.”

Crowspeaker Junral smiled, their smaller size betraying the strength they held in their clasp. “The only seed I sow in Jarl Vostadt is the pride of nurturing a worthy heir.” Their icy blue eyes flicked to Vosta’s arm. “You are injured.”

The warclad glanced down to her arm where violet trickled down her bicep in gentle riverlets. “A scratch.” She raised and flexed her arm. A dull sting bit into the wound, but only so much as a horsefly’s bite. “Hardly enough to remind me I am alive.”

“Good. Gather your possessions and come -. Jarl Vostadt is gathering his warclad.” The deep pools of Junral’s eyes brimmed with anticipation. “Grandfather Crow calls upon to reap the plains.”

Vosta straightened upright and thrust her hand to her chest with three fingers extended in a claw-like gesture. Solemnity flooded the Jotnari’s expression. “We breathe by his word.”

“Caw!”

The warclad turned to her avian companion. “Finish your meal, Feylor - our jarl calls for us both.”



Vosta felt more than heard the crack of thunder off her storm side. She caught the flash of something silver soar over her bowed enemy while an inky darkness imploded on the far side of the arena, an inverted star coalescing into the figure of a tall and horned monstrosity. Instinct tempted the warclad to turn towards this abnormality. No. A hunter who saw only the herd would never catch their prey. One by one. With discipline reigning in her impulse, Vosta’s gaze focused on the wisp of a woman before her. She rose to her full height, having evaded the interloping missile but falling victim to one of the warclad’s quills. Once, Vosta would have taken a perverse satisfaction in witnessing the low folk bowing to her after demanding the Jotnari to do the same. No shred of joy sparked in her now - only an emptiness tempered by wariness as a faint mist surrounded her foe, a bridal veil whose ivory clashed with Ruins’ golden haze. Murmurs, - no, chanting broke through the beyond and bled into the Jotnari’s ear, kissing her skin with death’s cold touch.

The aspiring sovereign stepped forward, graceful feet finding the perfect purchase amongst the rubble for her rhythm. Vosta pushed herself forward, urgency superseding caution as her own steps threatened to falter beneath her. The haunting veil enveloped her on all sides, its voices magnifying into a cacophonous chorus. Her heart thrummed within her chest. Not a sovereign - a deathsinger. Vosta grasped for another quill to silence her before-

Out of the aether corporealized a spear, obsidian and cobalt against the air’s ivory and gold. Within the vision of the Storm Eye, glittering rubies dripped from its sinister form. For a brief heartbeat, it hovered just a couple scant feet from Vosta’s shoulder. Blood pounded in her remaining ear as it plunged forward with all the fury of an eagle in-flight. Vosta grunted as she swung The Crow Laugh to ward off the blow, its faint whistling lost to the deathsinger’s melody. The glittering spear struck true against Vosta’s own, and she grimaced from the sheer might pit against her. Her eye flicked to the crowned figure capable of matching the warclad’s strength with but a word. Ol’ Crow, have you not humbled me enough? She moved to regain her balance-

Another note, louder than the first and twice as terrible, escaped the deathsinger’s lips. Vosta caught the second spear manifest at the edge of her vision. It propelled itself towards her, and the warclad had no choice but to turn into the strike to lessen the assault. As light and quick as the wind, yet it fell with the ferocity of steel against her cloak and flesh. Vosta inhaled sharply as it sliced clean through the front of her shoulder, the sting of open air against her exposed muscles sending a flash of fire sprawling across the wound. She lowered her spear, limbs tightening to leap in a flight of her own when the deathsinger laughed. “Your blood, I shed!” A sudden impact in the middle of the warclad’s back drove the breath from her body and threw her forwards. One foot hastily attempted to find balance but found only precarious rubble. Vosta cried out as leg and rock alike flew out from beneath her. The ground rushed up to greet her, and the Jotnari relinquished hold of The Crow Laugh to catch herself. The impact stung her hand and jarred her arm near the elbow where Blood and Bone met flesh. The pain of the latter lanced up the remnants of that arm, the nerves alight with lightning swirling around the bone.

Vosta sucked in a breath, biting through the storm brewing within her. She glanced up to see a mocking smile splashed on the face of the sovereign. The Jotnari’s gasp warped into a snarl, and violet talons clamped tight onto the chunk of rubble within its grasp. The warclad had been laid low once before and still bore the scars to prove it. Her strong arm, half her sight and hearing, the comfort she once had in storms…all tribute Vosta paid to the plains’mother for her insolence.

And because the sovereign had drawn blood and knocked the Jotnari off her feet, she lauded herself as if she had done the same.

Her amber eye burned like a final ember refusing to die.

“I weathered the storm - I can weather your song,” Vosta muttered in the speech of her people. She leapt to her feet, drawing back Blood and Bone with stone in talon while her other hand slipped for a bolas. She switched back to the low tongue - let the sovereign parrot the Jotnari’s threats if she could not craft her own. “Do not whisper-”

Vosta hurled the chunk of rubble with enough force to shatter the skull of an elk. She aimed for the deathsinger’s right temple in a bid to coax her to dodge left. Her bolas followed next, anticipating the evasion to entangle the sovereign’s delicate legs.

The warclad snatched up her boar spear and charged with a bellow.

“-SCREAM!”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 10
7/30/2023 22:57:51   
Necro-Knight
Member

Malgerius had expected the girl to burst into action at his approach, but when her movement took her away from him instead of towards, his mind immediately started to consider a new approach. That recalculation itself was halted when the girl, even as she moved, flared with a light that nearly forced the Paladin’s eyes away and reappeared as a mix between some form of gothic dancer and battle maiden. He admired the sudden surge of Pride he could almost feel even from this distance and felt a smirk pull at the corner of his mouth. The sharp crack of ignited gunpowder from somewhere to his left only reinforced this into a full smile.

Not everyone was what they seemed at face value like the man in the tavern, then. Good.

As he broke into a full run that turned more and more left with each step, the Hellfire Paladin dug deep into the soulfire that roared at the core of his being. Wielding the power his Matron had blessed him with in any amount was a sweet agony, an invigorating burn beneath his skin that moved up from his core and now expanded out into the left pauldron of his armor. After a few moments, the flames burst to life in the eye sockets of the skull that guarded his left shoulder and Malgerius planted his feet as his blazing shoulder aligned with the back of the sprinting woman.

In another life, he would’ve beckoned to her instead, challenged her in honorable combat with a direct set of engagement rules. The Light need not have its image stained by one wielding its power dishonorably, of course.

Now, all those watching the bloody performance would bear witness to the power of a soul empowered with Sin, perhaps even recognize their own short-comings while held back by society’s man-forged ideals. While many likely fought in this championship for themselves, for greed-fueled goals, Malgerius found himself comforted in the thought that he fought for the poor souls in need all around them.

The obsessive Sin of Greed was one log that burned in the hellfire furnace at his heart, but even above his own desires, every being watching deserved the same blissful freedom he had brought to Mylina. If other souls had to be sacrificed for such a goal? So be it.

The release of power from his armor followed mere moments later. Twin columns of deep-orange flame erupted from the pauldron's eye-sockets, his mace-head planted against the marble floor to stabilize his footing as he watched the twin rays burn away the golden fog on their way towards the center of the young woman’s back.
DF MQ AQW  Post #: 11
7/31/2023 23:43:41   
Oddball
Member

Dear Diary.
I have a bad feeling.
Coach has progressively been getting worse as the days march on, he’s even started yelling at us if we don’t ‘perform adequately’. It’s worrying… Coach has always been pretty tough on us but it never felt like it came from a place of malice or contempt.
What’s worse about this is that it’s started to rile some of the other members up, with a couple of them even threatening to back out of the meet if Coach doesn’t stop. They asked me how I felt about it but I couldn’t give them a straight answer.
I love Track, I want to follow in my grandpa’s footsteps and become a famous athlete.
But can I sit to the side as a bystander and let this continue?
I’m so confused..
Please, Diary, what can I do?

Yours, Parralia Anita.



Her dazzling debut had finished.

Oh how long had it been since she had last felt the euphoria of her transformation? The current location she traveled favoured a quiet approach, and Parralia seldom found opportunities to let her magic loose when she was constantly having to check her surroundings. The magical girl almost found herself letting off an excited giggle at the promise of expending some of her accumulated energy… her shadow had been getting awfully large, as of late.

It was unfortunate then, that one of the competitors immediately took to attempting to snuff her Light out, bellowing a deep war cry that reverberated in her brain for what felt like a lifetime.
She had little time to call out to the giant, to issue a heartfelt challenge to the warrior, as the same breath that brought upon a powerful cry had begun to freeze the air before them.
She had little time to react, and her attention was split between the surprise attack sent towards her, and the unmistakable sound of armored footsteps behind her.


What could she do?

Did she have a spell for this?

She thought back to the words she had heard upon waking up that morning… Two words beginning with a B and one with an F.

Bolt.

Blade

Fog

…Fog!

Quickly throwing her free arm up, Parralia made an attempt at defending herself from the worst of the oncoming blizzard, gritting her teeth as she felt the bitter sting of winter envelop her body.
She really hoped this wouldn’t ruin her love for the colder months of the year. Hazy memories of her and her family all huddled together by a fire, sipping from mugs of hot cocoa…


Parralia, focus!

That persistent voice in her head snapped the girl back to reality. Right! The tournament!

With a quick flourish of her axe, she struck the ground before her, the girl’s shadow hastily snaking up around the axe’s handle, and up through to the very top of the weapon where the crystal sat.

“Veil!”

With her sudden call, the shadow pooling at the tip of the axe burst forth as a vapour, quickly covering the area around Parralia in a thick, black fog. She had to act fast as there was still the problem of whatever the plate wearing contender was going to do.


With enemies beginning to surround her from three different directions, she only really had one option if she wanted to create some space between her and her multiple assailants…
Towards the yelling and the bizarre singing.

Breaking off into a sprint, Parralia exited the fog at full speed, rushing towards the location of the last two. With any luck she’d be able to get ample distance between herself and the center of the arena.

Her shadow seemed to wane and flicker as the fog cloud gradually began to spread out, the girl took a brief moment for a couple of deep breaths before she swung her axe forwards, sending a bolt of shadow towards the fog for good measure.

It wouldn’t really do a lot if it hit anyone, she merely wanted to out some of her frustration.
AQ DF AQW Epic  Post #: 12
8/1/2023 11:00:04   
Kooroo
Member

Despite having over a hundred-and-thirty odd years of combat experience under his belt, Devon had never been in a gladiatorial match before—neither voluntary nor otherwise. For reasons that were beyond him, however, the ex-Commando was finding it a bit difficult to be thrilled for the opportunity to fill in this glaring gap on his CV.

It might’ve had something to do with the overall situation—he was unfed, unwatered and under-rested, fighting in a deathmatch on some unknown Outer Realm for the Right to Resign; instead of just for fun. It also occurred to him that if he fell or failed here, then even his joking about his resume would be rendered moot. Or perhaps it was who he was fighting; a ragtag bunch of unscrupulous hoons, filling in for the elite warriors he had expected. A perfect example was evinced by the self-proclaimed Queen of the Liars, who most definitely didn’t seem to have the mindset—or rather, brains—to be an outstanding fighter.

No doubt the posters were just to lure in the audience and gullible sods like himself. Nearly two whole decades past one-fifty, and he still fell for simple adverts, Devon mused as he pocketed a rock that he’d scooped off the ground.

There was something else approaching him from his left—another combatant that had decided to just heads centreward and just deal with everything like he had. A bold move, though it mightn’t be the smartest or soundest plan for your average fighter. Unless they were feeling just as confident as Devon was—-which he highly doubted—then running into the middle of the action was a flashy way to off yourself.

The word ‘flashy’ was also the perfect word to describe this competitor, as they suddenly erupted into a brilliance that contrasted with their strategy. Irritated, the veteran clicked his tongue and glanced away to save his irises, despite the tint he’d pulled on to his lenses.

At least it wasn’t a persistent light. Devon could only imagine how annoying it would be if he had to fight someone that was constantly glowing from within, but that didn’t seem to be on the script today. The glare vanished soon after, revealing a young miss dressed in an impractically elaborate dress, wielding a dissimilarly plain battleaxe.

The nerve under Devon’s eye twitched. He knew exactly what this resembled, thanks to a long… educational spiel that Ayra had given him once. That girl and her pop-culture.

Ignoring the freshly-outfitted lass and her offer of a therapy session, he shot a lingering glare towards the cloud-veiled stands, where he knew Ayra was.

This one, he thought towards her, despite having neglected his Telepathy classes. I’m going to break this one. Just watch me.

Almost as if in protest, a bellowing roar came from his rear-left side, followed by a tell-tale whistling of many little darts streaking through the air.

Brilliant. What now?

Sighing, the Admin glanced to his left, slowing to watch as a mountain of steel, fur, and white-blue muscle surged by, making straight for… his quarry. Not him, would you believe?

This one looked a bit like a Jotunn. Mite smaller than he remembered them being, but it could be an offshoot or a variation. There hadn’t been any in the Controlled Realms he’d been to in the last decade, but he remembered being decked by one during his early Commando days. That hadn't been a nice—nor brief—stay in the infirmary, though those were few and far between.

Regardless of what it was—off-shoot, relative, by-product or Homebrand equivalent—Devon still didn't fancy being slugged by it. At least it was the magical lass' problem for the moment and not his.

Gosh, she was a popular one, wasn’t she? And if he wasn’t mistaken, there was yet another fellow behind her. Maybe they wanted a piece for themselves, or just wanted to take up that therapy offer. Knowing the type of quirky misfits he was surrounded by, they were probably going… dunno, try to sell her something. Cleaning services, extended axe warranty—if any of these blighters even knew what warranty was.

“Or maybe they were trying to sell her a grill,” Devon muttered absently, as he squinted in the distance. He couldn’t quite see from this distance—his spectacles were the older kind, without zoom—but there was a tell-tale glow not dissimilar to the flame from a hearth.

He picked up speed to a sprint, following in the ice behemoth's wake, marble chips crunching underfoot.

So, the magical lass with the axe, the mobile fireplace behind her, and the frost giant charging on ahead. Three before him to put to the sword, whilst the Liar and her partner performed a musical behind him.

Five in total then. Could’ve just thrown them all in a room to duke it out and see who survived. Ironically, that was akin to the statement Devon had thrown into Yvelle’s face immediately after that first, disastrous mission he’d undertaken essentially performed Cleanup work for.

“What ‘training’ did you put those guys through?” he’d asked during the debriefing. “I don’t see any reason that eight trained Agents can be offed so easily by three men in dirty aprons.”

“The same that was offered to you, though with more of a focus on the fundamentals,”she’d replied, seemingly without a second thought. “Do you have something you’d like to suggest?”

“I don’t think it’s working. You’d have more luck throwing them in a room and telling them not to leave until only one was left standing.”

At that point, the Director had simply promised that they’d take any suggestions under advisement and continued the debriefing. Devon had been less than thrilled about being brushed off that easily, but he hadn’t learnt about the full scale of the issue until much later.

The sharp crack of metal on marble brought his full attention back to the task at hand, and he watched as a wave of obsidian haze rushed billowed out towards him. Whilst that hopefully wouldn’t be too much of a problem to Devon, it was enough of an issue to stop the frigid colossus he’d been tailing.

Well, if you insist, kind sir.

The Administrator killed his speed and slowed, adjusting his centre of gravity as he reached the glacial giant. Then, without further ado, he placed one boot against the Jotunn’s calf, followed by other—the world shifted and Devon ran up its back.

To its credit, the creature reacted much faster than he’d thought it would. He was about halfway up and was about to take his fourth step when the giant twisted and turned, trying to dislodge him. Its right arm reached backwards and over, in an attempt to swat its uninvited passenger, forcing the ex-soldier to disembark early.

Another step and he’d have had a swing at Jotunn’s neck, but fate had deemed that to be too easy.

Devon kicked off with his right and launched himself sideways, but brought his blade up to bear.

With a resounding snap, the falcata jerked back and pulled him sideways. He torqued as he fell, twisting into the recoil, spinning around and landing—just barely—on his feet.

Well, that’d been disappointing. Seems like he’d gotten the behemoth’s shoulder, but had done little more than agitated it. Throwing back to what he’d thought earlier, now he’d made it his problem.

Clicking his tongue, Devon released the cartridge and flipped the next one in, prepping a response for when the monster inevitably roared before rushing him. He raised the loaded blade and planted his feet, seemingly prepared to take the charge on.

“Well, come on then,” he grinned.

The frostbound titan opted to grunt instead, but then rushed him all the same. A slight variation to the draft, but close enough.

Improvising was practically his M.O anyway.
AQW Epic  Post #: 13
8/1/2023 22:30:38   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


 Queen Lyre gazed down at her prey, her pity-filled, soft eyes failing to match the cruel smirk hidden beneath her veil. She’d been in this moment many times; a foreign warrior trembling in fear after the Queen had opened them up to their own weakness. So many times, The Song had accompanied her following acts of mercy. She would stand tall, but offer a hand. The soldier would gladly take it, and she would raise them from the filth and muck of their past to join her glorious kingdom.

The rage in the giant’s eye portented no such gratitude.

Her first words were nothingness to the woman who deigned languages beyond her own simply unnecessary. She instead followed the giant’s movements, sharp eyes tracing the muscled arm as it rose with a crude stone in hand. A fitting weapon for such a foe. It would be accompanied by another quill, no doubt. Such a single-minded warrior seemed to lack the creativity to do much else. Lyre stepped back, gripping tight the air behind her. If the giant wished to keep slinging stones in her blind charge, the Queen would meet it with all her might. She took a full step forwards, thrusting her arms forwards in the salute of her soldiers. Her voice bellowed in melodious timbre, threatening to drown out the speech from the brute.

“Do not whisper-”

Sing! Of trembling whispers in kingdoms far gone!
Advisors warning kings in vain, declarations made and wives bid farewell!
A verse replayed until not one was left to play it!


“-SCREAM!”

SING! OF MOURNFUL SCREAMS! OF HUNDREDS MADE WIDOW AND WIDOWER!
OF ROYAL HEADS BROUGHT LOW, OF SUPPLICATION TO THE GUILTY!
LET ALL JOIN THE FOLD OF VICTORY AND BLOOD UNDER ONE WOMAN’S BANNER!
ALL HAIL QUEEN LYRE!


Lyre shut her eyes and drowned in the rhythm of her Song and war alike. The woodwinds swish of air was giant’s stone and quill alike, soaring past and shattering beyond royal’s place as the Queen nimbly stepped aside. The percussion of steel - spears ringing beautifully against giant’s cloak as the brute’s rapid footsteps left the ground. The strings were the squelch of flesh giving way to metal, and blood sailing through the sky. She opened her eyes to bear witness to her symphony-

-and watched the sky spin as she tumbled below. The ground divulged in the rare taste of her fall, sharp refuse tearing wounds anew in her palms, a nail breaking upon an out-of-place stone. She coughed out a curse, every ounce of rhythm completely broken. On an off-tempo beat she felt tightness around her wrists, as if sealed in this disgusting posture of deference. Opposite her breath came the looseness draped ‘round her neck and the risk of her scarf slipping away, that her beauty may be exposed to the undeserving. Weight upon her head, and her crown far, far too heavy, as if it would fall right through her.

A loose stone, round and pristine, rolled across her vision. An unfelt drop of blood slid down her face.

These feelings. These sights. The blinding glint of steel upon the warrior’s spear. The brilliant orange of flames beyond her vision.

She would not permit these delusions to feel familiar.

Her eyes shot to her legs, finding rope and stone entangled in an unwelcome embrace. Such a crude tool, yet it toppled a royal. It would take but a stroke of a knife to cut away these bindings. Her hand drifted to the bracelet upon her wrist, lingering for but a second, before reaching past it and gripping a sharpened marble shard. A Queen of the Steelsong carried no blade. It was an unacceptable thought. She quickly reclaimed rhythm from the giant’s final steps and the sawing of stone against hemp.

One. Two. Three.

Giant roared words unheard, in language unknown.

One. Two. Three.

“I teach war.”

The final cut sheared rope, silk, and flesh alike, spattering a thin line of royal blood upon the stones. She quickly threw herself forwards, trusting that the giant would expect further retreat rather than a reckless advance. The brute’s oversized spear scythed downwards, clipping the queen’s leg in her haste and scattering far too much blood to the ground. No. She had not been struck. There was no pain. No searing, lightning-like pain that crippled her steps and beat to her inner rhythm. There was no blood. No earth soiled by any mistake or misjudgement. Her strained breath panted out the first notes of a new verse that called The Song inwards. A quick turn aligned herself to face the giant once more, and she kicked off her useless heels and shook away the blurriness that crept upon her sight. Her eyes locked upon the giant, its crude wrath stolen so royal eyes could blaze alike with fury and rage as the Queen rose to one feeble leg and let the stone and dirt kiss her bare feet. She spat a promise, anger triumphing over posture at last.

“I will break you.”

Post #: 14
8/4/2023 22:35:08   
Apocalypse
Member

“Is it true, father?”

Vosta knelt, waiting with bated breath for the answer. Jarl Vostadt grinned at her from the Perched Throne. Splendent carved wings jutted out from the backrest and swept forward to flank the leader of the Crowcallers on either side. From atop the throne rested a daunting crow skull too large to be worn as a helm even by the Jotnari themselves. Her father cut an imposing figure within the woodwork, though the seat of power seemed to threaten to engulf him should he dare utter an unworthy response.

When he answered, the jarl’s voice rolled as if it had been dragged over a mountain and back again. “It is true, daughter o’ mine.” He stood, feathered garments rustling to herald every sway and twitch of his form. The warclad stiffened when his hand fell onto her shoulder, rough and firm. Vosta looked up and into his amber eyes captured in tattoos of reaching talons. “The guardian of the plains is away, and her people are undefended.” His crooked smile split his face even wider. “I have seen it. Crowspeaker Junral has witnessed it. Grandfather Crow has spoken it.” He looked away from her now, his gaze drifting to the open doors of the longhouse and the blistering winterscape beyond it. Vosta strained her eyes but could not penetrate beyond the snow flurries endlessly pursuing one another. Her father saw something else, something more beyond the ivory curtain. What else could be behind the fierce hunger burning in his eyes?

Two dark shapes swooped through the entrance, twin shadows shedding the snow from their forms mid-flight. They circled the room once before taking their place among their masters and companions. Feylor landed upon Vosta’s shoulder, beak nestling in her hair without hesitation. The other carrion crow landed on Jarl Vostadt’s outstretched arm and surveyed the room with his golden eyes.

“Good, Ba’lorn,” Jarl Vostadt said as he petted the crow’s wings. “That message was the last. On the morrow, we teach the low folk war.”



The bolas had scarcely left her fingertips when the deathsinger released another discordant note and with it, two more of her inverted spears. Each spiraled between violet and bronze as they cut through the haze. Spear after spear after spear - the deathsinger commanded great power, but thus far that power remained limited to her apparitions.

If Vosta could close the distance…

With a roar, the warclad threw herself into the air, twisting her body to present her back to the deathsinger. Two concordant impacts slammed into her, and sharp lightning carved a gash near the mid of her back. Vosta choked for air as she fell to the ground, the wound erupting with renewed vigor as she landed on a protruding piece of debris. Fallen quills clattered all around her, but the Jotnari was deaf to them, deaf to the deathsinger’s hymn, and deaf to the world. She lay still for a moment, fighting for her breath as her back grew slick with blood. White began fogging over her vision-

K R O D O T T I R

“No!” Vosta jolted upright, back reigniting from the sudden lurch. She clenched her teeth until she tasted iron and twisted back around. She was warclad - born to ice and wind, forged in war! Her people descended from giants, their legacy kept alive within her blood. Vosta climbed to her feet, using her spear as a crutch despite the burning spiders burrowing into her skin within her wound. She fumbled for words, haggard breaths breaking up her mother’s tongue.

“From the skies-”

She glared to where the deathsinger lay, her thin arms hacking away at the ropes still binding her lefts. -we hunt.

Fury, raw and primal, purged the fiery stings scraping at her spine. “-Death.”

A single bound forward and The Crow Laugh came crashing down, its maniacal cackle applauding the lust for blood and death as Vosta joined its din with roar.

“I teach war!’

In a harebrained gambit, the wisp of a woman cut loose her bindings and vaulted herself towards the warclad. The spear head, meant to sever the deathsinger's leg from her body, only scratched it in a spray of crimson. Vosta maneuvered, pivoting on her heel to punish her enemy’s foolish ploy when divine fortune saved her from the Jotnari’s wrath. In the hair’s breadth before Vosta could plunge The Crow Laugh into the deathsinger’s back, a clawed hand barreled into view on her storm side. The warclad mumbled a curse and shifted, stepping backwards to avoid the dismembered limb and allowing her prey to make her escape. The shape morphed into a splotch of onyx before splattering against the marble debris littering the arena. Vosta glowered at the newcomer, a low folk girl prancing about in a dress and touting an axe far too large for her frame. So she had come to the false sovereign’s aid, head filled with her empty promises and emptier ideals. The Jotnari paused - to her left, the deathsinger stood up on trembling legs while to the right, the low folk girl braced herself for battle. In her mortal vision, the latter did not seem like a challenge. To the Storm Eye, she was by far the greater threat. Instead of a girl stood a hulking monstrosity, its massive muscles tightened like cords and unburdened by skin and hide alike. Atop its head sat a set of antlers glistening like sharpened knives. Vosta flicked her eye back and forth between the pair of sorcerers, as different as the sun and the moon, that wove an unspoken alliance between them. The low folk girl - the devilskin - bolstered strength yet seemed hesitant to use it. She possessed not the thirst of war. The deathsinger reflected her opposite: injured and feeble, but with the spirit to fight as obstinate as her desire to rule. “I will break you.”

Vosta gave an amused grunt and lowered the edge of “The Crow Laugh until the flat of its head rested next to a pile of fallen debris.

“Break?” She shook her head, swallowing hard as pain and fire ripped at her from the inside out. Her amber eye rolled over the woman masquerading as sovereign. She tapped her chest once, twice, with her taloned hand. “Godblooded broke me.” The Jotnari lashed out, spear head howling as it launched a cloud of rock and dust towards the devilskin. Agony lanced up her back at the exertion, but Vosta tore through the pain - the regret - and leaped towards the lying queen.“No more to break!”

Not anymore.

Knuckles tightened on the boar spear as she brought it back for a single thrust poised for the deathsinger’s soft chest. For a single heartbeat, the air grew still. The warclad sucked in a single breath.

And sundered the sky.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 15
8/5/2023 11:00:03   
Kooroo
Member

In all honesty, the Jotunn’s charge was more like a tackle, considering the range between the two of them. Devon barely had time to shimmy to the right and swing his left arm forward, the sword flashing into his assailant’s side.

There was a loud tchak and a sharp pull on his arm, as the blade failed to take and the armour rewarded him with reverberating recoil. Yep, that was a metal breastplate alright.

Lower, in that case.

He gave into the force and spun, pivoting on the front of his ball of his right foot, then brought his free hand to meet hi—

Devon wondered if there was a race of these… ‘freakish’, mini-Jots, because this one was ‘freaking’ fast.

Without pause, he skipped backwards once, then conceded another few steps as the behemoth struck at him twice—a right, looping grab, rapidly followed by a thrust from a sword held in its left mit.

Cheeky bugger, pulling swords out of thin air. It was as though it’d had a gander at the Spec Ops Cookbook, though Devon couldn’t be sure if it knew how to read.A commendable tactic regardless—one the Admin had used often enough in times long past.

Still, they could continue like this all day and wouldn’t get anywhere. The man-mountain looked like it had enough of a tank to keep going for a while, but Devon wasn’t keen to play along until he ran out of ground or one of the other pillocks came a-calling.

Another scheduled left thrust came for him again, so he promptly reversed the step he’d feigned and lunged forward, off his right. A rime-coloured right fist flew forth, but it was slow and off-centre—the Jotunn’s sheer size working against it.

The falcata flashed as Devon stepped in and under the frost giant’s guard, arcing the sword into its flank. Blade bit into hide, sliced through flesh, grazed against bone, all three pushing and holding the scarred and battered edge—and it was out, resistance gone.

He spun with his follow through and brought the sword up again, following immediately with a horizontal strike that sent the colossus reeling.

Simple, so simple. Almost like the first week on the job. Or at least, the first week after that first orientation… Well, the official term was ‘mission’, but Devon felt ‘disaster’ was more apt.

At least the next few days after had been rather relaxing; paper work, response to a hypermarket robbery, paperwork, Singularity removal, more paperwork, and then riot control on a Fringe Realm. Basically a Working Holiday, when you lined it up against some of the latter jobs.

Simple days, for simple times. Speaking of which—

The ex-soldier dove to the side as a barrage of icy darts flew past, going into a roll and coming up in a low crouch. A fair exchange for figuratively napping, he supposed. His overcoat was going to need a dusting and some airing later, once he got back to his room. Although to be frank, Devon didn’t think that would help much, what with the pitiful ventilation that building had.

Despite its wounds, the mini-Jot was still raring to go. It lumbered forward, then charged again, a frost weapon in each hand.

Again, eh? Well, if at first you don’t succeed, try until you die.

He grinned and bounded forth to meet the frosty brute’s charge. This was going to be a—


“Piece of cake?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. “With no disrespect, Ania, but did you also say that before…”

He let the sentence hang and indicated her new arm—freshly grown and still a touch pale, following the events of Devon’s ‘orientation’.

For her part, the lass’ lips twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smile and she laughed, though it was short and brittle. “Don’t worry, it’s fine! I’m here, aren’t I? Right as rain, as they say.”

“If you say so?” he frowned, doubtfully. “But I’d personally take more than a week off if they cut my arm off and tried to make me into a pie.”

“But wouldn’t you be afraid of reassignment?”

“What? From the squad?”

“Yeah.”

“F… For what? For taking more than a week of Med Leave? What, Yvelle’s dropping Agents from—”

“The Director?” Ania laughed again, a touch more genuinely. “Oh lords, no. What would she be doing, fussing around with Standard Level Twos like us? Next thing you know, she’s going to personally handle our performance reviews.”

“Well, I—”

Devon stopped himself as their bus slowed. He frowned and made to stand, but his seatbelt put an end to that, so he stayed seated and checked his wristwatch. They couldn’t have arrived yet; it was far, far too early. They weren’t slated to arrive at the powerplant for another hour and a bit, or so.

“What’s hap—” Ania began, but was cut off with as a loud crash—


—as the Jotunn collided with him, catching him off guard. That wasn’t right.

In-and-under, or maybe even side-and-under had been the plan. Good.

Not front and centre. Front and centre, followed by a wrestling match. Bad.

Ice ground against metal as axes met sword, and the colossus roared and forced Devon to concede a couple of steps. He was lucky he’d already wounded it, honestly. Little doubt that he’d’ve been flattened to a paste if the brutish sod had been fighting fit.

Another shove from the behemoth and the Administrator grunted, giving yet another step, his arms and back straining, protesting with the effort.

That last move had given away a tell, though. Seemed like it was favouring its left arm, to make up for the wounds on its right side. Now he just needed another opportunity….

Then it came.

Another push, so Devon moved, shifting his weight on to his left leg and shoving off his right boot, letting him skip back as his aggressor stumbled forward.

The operative stepped in, twisted his wrist, then swung the sword up and around, left hand coming up to meet his right—

Bingo.

—and was rewarded with a soft, but clear snick as the falcata passed through the monster’s throat. It gagged and dropped, falling down to a knee, blood spilling freely from the wound.

“One down,” Devon smiled, flicking his wrist out and dusting off his shoulder.

Still another, what, four to go? That’d been a mite harder than expected, but nothing unusual. Piece of cak—

And then, as a last hurrah the giant chav lunged into him, launching him bodily through the air.
AQW Epic  Post #: 16
8/5/2023 11:02:39   
Oddball
Member

Hey, diary…
It’s been a tough week for us all and I haven’t had the time spare to collect my thoughts and vomit them onto your pages. I guess I should start with the good news? Just to lighten the mood a little before I get to…yesterday's events. The good news is that I’m now the first pick for the 400m! if it’s even happening in the first place so that brightened my day somewhat.
What else? Uh… Hmm.
Oh! We’re planning a little trip into the city during the summer. I know Kori’s constantly been bugging dad about it and it looks like he finally gets some time off work while I’m not busy with track. I’m sure the girls won’t mind if I take just a couple of days away, right..?
…Right, it’s not them I’m worried about.
Coach… was detained yesterday. None of us are really sure what happened, but almost the whole school witnessed him being forced into the back of a police car.
I only caught a glimpse of him during the scuffle… but skin isn’t supposed to be grey like that.
We’ve got a replacement teacher filling in right now. I just can’t shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen.
Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.

Yours, Parralia Anita.



The magical girl stood and watched as the bolt soared towards the inky blackness of the lingering fog before it was consumed by the gradually expanding shadows. Twirling around on her heels, Parralia witnessed the near-death of one of the other competitors; a relatively tall woman whose appearance suggested they would be more comfortable holed up in some fancy castle than on the battlefield… Then again, it’s not like she had any grounds to judge someone solely off of how they looked. Book by cover, and all that.

As for the one attempting to snuff out another’s light, they stood at an impressive height that Parralia found herself marvelling at for just a brief moment. They clutched a spear that was as long as she was tall and it was obviously no stranger to combat. Neither was its owner, she’d guess.

In another time? She may have extended a full greeting to both, wanting nothing more than to learn about these fighters from across this land, and what their homes were like… Parralia could only hope that they were better than hers.

But as she stood rooted to the ground, watching the larger warrior stalk towards their downed prey, Parralia knew she had to do something…

Didn’t she?

This wasn’t her fight, she had no reason to interfere with these two. Nothing to warrant an interruption from the magical girl. It would be completely fine if she just watched, or turned back to face the rest of the opposition…

So why did her chest feel so heavy?

Frustrated with her inability to let things be, Parralia shifted her grip on her axe, letting the axe head briefly dip into her shadow. Sparks fly across the marble floor as Parralia swings the weapon up in front of her, firing off a bolt towards the advancing hulking mass. A relieved smile graced the girl’s features for just a moment as the larger warrior was forced to take a step backwards. Their attention snapped to Parralia, mismatched eyes glaring a hole through deep pools of red. Parralia almost instinctively took a step back at the furious gaze, free arm held behind her back to try and conceal the fact it was trembling slightly.

The two seemed to engage in a short back and forth but Parralia wouldn’t be able to tell you what either party said, the girl was too focused on where the head of the Giant’s spear was.
The girl’s worries would quickly prove themselves correct, as the spear wielder launched a chunk of debris towards the magical girl.


With her weapon finding its way back to her shadow, Parralia sprung into action. The girl stepped to her left with a twirl, and the axe seemed to force the girl’s shadow to move with it, drawing a circle around her. The shadowed circle began to coagulate at three different parts, the magic rising from the ground before taking the form of swords. One hovered at her left, one at her right, and one behind her.

Parrali’s vision blurred as a sudden pain ripped through the back of her mind. A storm of voices from all around her overwhelmed her senses, as the world around Parralia faded. She was left inside a void.

It was just her…

Her and that mirror.

Her image stared back at her, tainted by her own magic. The elegant black dress, and her hair, were both dyed a dark red. Blossoming Starlight lay shattered behind her, the gem that she fought to keep safe split in two, and stabbed through the mirror.

It was just a nightmare. This wasn’t real

This didn’t mean anything

”I’ll be seeing you soon. Me.”

Echoed words filled the empty space, Parralia watching on as her reflection’s expression twisted into an unsettling smile.

“...You… You’re not me.”

”Defiance in the face of overwhelming truth. Perhaps you are even more foolish than I first thought.”

“You can’t be me!”

The girl’s voice had been raised, as Parralia denied her reflections words with all of her heart.
Her grip tightened around her weapon as she swung it forwards with a frustrated shout, the mirror before her shattering into impossibly small shards.

A mad cackle filled the void, Parralia’s own voice twisting into a maddening layer of differing tones and volumes as she cried out for the noise to stop.

And as she did?

Silence. Utter nothingness.

She was alone. As she always was.

The girl tightly shut her eyes, silently begging for this horrible dream of hers to end. A choked sob left Parralia as her voice once again spoke to her, this time as a whisper almost too quiet to hear.

”You’ll be back… they always come back.

And with that, Parralia’s eyes forced themselves open. She found herself back in Bren’s arena, standing in the very same spot she had been before… Just how long was she in that dream for? With her eyes now focused again, she could see that the Giant’s attention was no longer on her, and she was leaping through the air towards the downed royal.

Her choice was easy.

She lived to protect others, to bring everlasting Hope to a world that has long forgotten it.

She had to fulfil her duty.

Flicking her fingers inwards, the blade that was floating at her right pulled itself towards her, tilting so that it pointed towards the larger opponent.

And with a yell, she struck the blade with her fist, pushing it towards the warrior at high speeds. She couldn’t waste any more time… she couldn’t. So against her better judgement, she dashed forwards to follow the projectile.

She could only hope that it would strike true.
AQ DF AQW Epic  Post #: 17
8/5/2023 20:56:39   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP
Retreat! Reform! Rejoice! The Queen demands it play a new piece!
Upon melodious boots it steps, it marches, it stands guard ‘round Queen and Queen alone! What was it to do? What was it to see?
Oh what to sing?
Oh what to sing?!
Sing of a fall!
Of voices in the dark, agreeing that the world must change!
Of poison in a cup, that failed to kill yet brought to slumber!
Of daughter
Of daughter
Of daughter
Of-


Queen Lyre stifled a shiver. Something in this Song felt wrongly familiar, as if it was singing of her. The giant, for the first time since the curtain rose, shifted its attention elsewhere for but a beat. A familiar figure; the peasant from before now a princess in gorgeous garb of shadow and wielding an axe fit for execution. Assistance? From other royalty? From royalty that deemed herself fit to wallow in the deceptive form of a commoner? To accept it was a stain upon her rule, but the blood upon the Queen’s skin demanded a new form of fealty.

Alas, the child’s aid lasted not even a measure. The giant’s attention turned back to the Queen, a disgusting snicker upon the brute’s throat threatening the quiet Song. The warrior spoke, dismissing Lyre’s threat as a simple nothing, acting as if the rare act of looking down at the Queen gave her the right to rule over the monarch. In the same breath she flung stone and dust at the princess and leapt towards the Queen.

Lyre simply hummed along to The Song. This warrior was beneath her. This warrior was beneath her. She would earn no more acknowledgement. Not a word more. Lyre would stand with pursed lips over the giant’s broken form and end her life without so much as a farewell. That was how it should have been from the very beginning.

The giant drew her spear back in a slow, practiced motion, eyes locked on the Queen’s chest. Lyre dropped her voice lower, word after word tumbling forth like a waterfall until it stopped at a rest. Stillness, for one long, impossible moment.

A deep inhale. A released note. Spear and Song leapt in the same breath.

Sing. Of a Queen upon her knees.
Disbelief in her eyes, chains clasped on her wrists, head bowed before her court and kingdom.
Steel sings overhead, held by a feeble string.
It is cut.


Her scream was fresh upon the first beat. Song opened sky before her, a window negating her view of the giant and her spear only a moment before she would be run through.

Upon the second beat, sky cracked before spear. Disbelief made her regal step far, far too slow.

Upon the third, the sky was sundered. The Song shrieked in rage as its shards scattered among the ruins, but its call was nothing to the high pitch of Lyre’s second terror.

And on the fourth she was pierced. Her single step had been enough to save life, but not limb. Steel invaded her arm, scarlet flew free. The force of the blow lifted the Queen from the earth, her body tumbling back across stone and rubble. Sharp edges tore at dress, scarf, and skin, leaving all riddled with cuts and blood. The Song, the scream, ceased mid-breath, and royalty lay motionless amongst the ruins.

The mangled mess of her left arm bled and roared with its own beat, pain tearing at her sanity like knives. The bracelet on her right had come loose, and sat neatly within reach. She could just make out its blade without needing to move her tired, broken gaze. It was clean. Perfectly, utterly clean.

A blade for the silent threat that kept her up at night. A blade for the quiet steps that might enter her chambers. A blade to slit a throat that may yearn to slit her own.

There had never been a silent threat. Only the false praise of her advisor, the oracle’s empty promises of a kingdom eternal, and the bubbling goblet that the Father offered “on behalf of the Lords.” She was so sick of lies; so many forced upon her that she joined in the farce. When the dangling blade above had settled neatly upon her head she had deludedly declared it her eternal rule, only for it to lead her here; a shattered Queen of nothing amidst the ruins of a kingdom forgotten. She glanced at the spotless knife again, feeling the steel crown dig at her pounding head. Her rule may be a lie… but her knack for death was very real.

If lies were loud, it was time to become silent. No song. No rhythm. Lyre rose on unsteady legs, one still shedding blood. Her left arm dangled, limp and worthless, unable to do anything but remind her of its agony. Her right clasped her knife by the blade, the lightning of pain driving her forwards. Her soundless, shaking steps pierced her mind, each requiring far too much effort to bring her only a breath closer to the beast. Through a bloodied, blurred gaze she could see the hunter, distracted by the princess and thinking its prey sundered and slain. Lyre shot forwards, the rush heightening pain threefold. The princess’ skill gave way for the Queen to circle behind her target, and from a stray slab of rubble she freed herself from the earth. Her legs sang with joy as the pressure on them vanished and she sailed for the giant’s back. Through blurred eyes she locked onto the twice-struck wound; a hole in the cloak of feathers.

Without a sound, without a song, without a note or rhythm or threat or promise or lie, her arm lanced forwards and Lyre’s own hand drove the knife deep.

Post #: 18
8/5/2023 22:03:44   
  Starflame13
Moderator


 For a single moment, all movement stopped. For one mere second, all noise ceased.

The sky went dark.

Air crackled with arcane energy, sending the shadowed fog swirling in a maddened rush. Marble trembled underfoot, debris shaking and clattering against the suspended floor. With a shriek of rage, the wind snapped, clouds coalescing into a single massive whirlwind that twisted and thickened, black bleeding into a kaleidoscope of colors - a single figure caught in its epicenter. In a single instant, Malgerius was enveloped by the tempest, his presence overwhelmed and snuffed out without time for a scream. Neither smoke nor hellfire remained to mark his passing - nothing save for a single circle of blackened marble.

The roars of the raised stands - now visible from beyond the arena boundaries - were carried by a gentle breeze across the clear expanse of the ruined Palace of the Sky.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 19
8/8/2023 22:03:18   
Apocalypse
Member

Dawn’s cold light crested over the mountain to illuminate the Gilded Plains below. Vosta surveyed the land from her crouched position, long blades of grass tickling at her forearms and chin. From up on Gods’ Peak, the plains did truly look golden under Grandfather Crow’s Burning Eye. Vosta had been disappointed when her father took her down to the plains for her first hunt and discovered that the stalks of wheat were golden in color only. He had laughed at her frown. “Vosta, this is worth more than gold! Gold is heavy and weak. This gift is light and will fill our bellies.” She remembered the grin on his face as he spied the low folk setting to their harvest. “We need only wait for them to gather it first.”

The very same field sat below her now, wheat swaying and rustling under Grandfather Crow’s Breath. Vosta eyed the collection of tents and yurts and other frail encampments resting opposite of the golden sea. She and the other warclad, including her father, had been in position when the moon and stars still hung in the sky, waiting for the hunt to begin.

Next to her, the grass rustled and the Jotnari hidden within it gave an audible groan.

“Ease yourself, Arnek.” Across the way, the warclad caught sight of movement as a host of able-bodied low folk entered the field of wheat. “Now is not the time to lose commitment.”

“Apologies, Clad Vosta.” Arnek shifted again, his wide form giving the surrounding green a good shake. She could see his shaven head peek out from the top of the tall green. “Ol’ wound is acting up. Making me whole leg go numb-”

“Arnek, tail position. Ingav, swap with Helrun. Helrun, replace Arnek.” Vosta waited as her bloodsworn crawled into position, hardly noticing the silent Helrun as she took her place as Vosta’s right wing. She would have preferred Arnek to break through defensive formations, but the slighter Jotnari had her advantages - not complaining about old scars chief among them.

Vosta glanced to her right, looking to where her father and his sworn resided at the mountain’s base. She and her father had been centered in the middle of the eleven other warclad bands, but she had neither seen nor heard from him since they took their positions. Blood thrummed in her ears as she turned back to the golden sea. Any moment now…

Stalks of wheat rustled as a singular low folk stepped out from them, harvesting equipment still strapped to his back. Vosta held her breath and looked right. From the grass protruded the head of a boar spear, blade glinting in the dawnlight. With a swipe down, the cackling of a murder of crows boomed through the air.

Vosta smiled.

Reciting the words etched into her father’s weapon and her memory, she spurned her bloodsworn to action. “From the skies-”

Their dozen voices joined hers in a nightmarish chorus.

“-WE HUNT!”



A breath of silence.

A heartbeat of ruin.

The Crow Laugh exploded with a bloodcurdling howl, its cry booming throughout the arena as it tore itself forward. Vosta clenched her teeth and tightened her grip on the spear. She had been the one to leap into the air but now The Crow Laugh seemed to surge forward of its volition with Vosta merely holding on for the ride. The taste of iron coated her tongue. Vosta fought the urge to spit and focused before her. The lying queen stood, her notes of discord lost to the wailing of her father’s spear. From the skies-

Within the Storm Eye, an icy prism of hexagonal glass burgeoned to life around the wanting sovereign.

“-DEATH!”

Steel and cold screeched in horrific harmony. Vosta caught sight of a thousand faces of hers reflected back in the queen’s mirror of mirrors. A thousand faces contorted with hate and rage, mouths dripping with violet ichor. A thousand faces bearing the scars of failure. A thousand eyes gifted by an unknowing foe.

A thousand faces obliterated into oblivion as the The Crow Laugh pierced the queen’s icy prison.

Vosta landed hard on her feet, tendrils of fire spiraling out from the wound in her back. Her body locked up, and the Jotnari gasped for breath as her vision blurred white. No. The salt of her sweat graced her lips, pulling her back into the present. I am not done.

K R O D O T T I R

He will never let me be done.

The warclad steadied herself with the boar spear, the clawed end landing on the arena floor with a loud thunk. Where the pain ebbed away, exhaustion flooded in its place. Her arm and legs hung heavy as lead. Forcing in a shuddering breath, Vosta looked up to where the queen lay on the ground, battered and beaten. Her eye fell to the sovereign’s left arm bleeding and bent both at the wrong angle and in the wrong location. “Broken.” Vosta lowered her gaze to the ground, tension releasing itself from her back and shoulders, and sighed.

And jerked back as a snake - onyx and glossy - sailed through the air from her storm side.

Vosta growled, head spinning from the sudden thrust of motion. As the twisted serpent entered the vision of her amber eye, it morphed into a blade forged from darkness and shadows. She twirled Blood and Bone in its socket to intercept the blow and howled as the sword clashed by her elbow and knocked her prosthetic free. Vosta lost sight of it as the strike knocked her unsteady on her feet, staggering her to face the devilskin charging her. Twin snakeblades circled at the girl’s back while she raised her axe, its crystal gleaming with light both vibrant and dark across Vosta’s visions. “Vengeance? Glory?” Vosta grunted as she whipped The Crow Laugh around by the head, letting the shaft slip through her fingers until her hand gripped it again near the bottom. She lurched forward and brought the clawed end smashing down towards the insolent girl, fingers pressing against the obscured functions of the spear.

Her heart sunk in her chest as she whispered, “Feylora.”

Clawed talons crushed the egg within its grasp, shattering it to release a piercing screech. A murder of crows mocked and cried and laughed as the boar spear crashed against the devilskin’s raised axe. Its shadowy light flickered within her storm vision, and the girl tumbled backwards from the exchange. Fool. “Bloodshed earns none.”

She hardly felt the knife as it punctured through her abdomen.

Neither fire nor constriction plagued her - only quivering legs bringing her to her knees and a soft warmth seeping out from the wound. The Crow Laugh clattered to the floor, bouncing off the rubble in a sharp series of tings. Vosta brought a trembling hand to touch the violet-soaked tip when it twisted. The warclad choked, spittle flying from her lips as all her muscles tightened, winding together around the axis conceived by the knife. She flung her head back, fighting a losing battle for her own breath when she saw him.

When she heard him.

A figure standing off her storm side, swirling in a maelstrom of wings and feathers.

K R O D O T T I R


A smile crept across bloodstained lips. She spoke to her tormentor in her people’s tongue. “Is this what you wanted, Ol’ Crow?”

To answer, her tormentor stole the sun from the sky.

Energy hissed and crackled, both lightning and yet something more, in a chromatic spider web across her visions. Wind howled and screamed, earth trembled and shook, and all the while the shadowclad figure simply pointed with a taloned hand that was much too long towards the shape of the one caught in the eye of its storm. A shape forged from metal and fire, yet dripping with molten silver and bleeding emeralds.

When her tormentor next spoke, Vosta spoke with him.
K R O D O T T I R

”K R O D O T T I R”

Feathers bloomed and blossomed from the stub of her arm like a writhing column of coiled serpents. It stretched well past the length of any natural arm and rolled across the still caromming marble. The mass of feathers came at last to an end before a crow foot emerged in place of a hand, blessed with three talons long and sharp. Vosta flexed the talons, her talons, feeling the rough edges of the broken rubble scratch against it.

By the time she glanced back up for the figure of Grandfather Crow, he had vanished, taking with him the chaos he wrought.

She could still hear his voice rebound within her mind over and over again, a waterfall cascading unto itself. .

She announced her allegiance in response. “I breathe by his word.”

Warmth engulfed her entire torso. Hot blood doused her spine. She paid neither any heed as she stood up reached impossibly far back with her crow arm, wrapping it round her body and grasping the troublesome gnat stinging her with length to spare. The Crow-Daughter relished in the soft touch of the lying queen’s skin, at the heat of her redded blood trickling down her neck. She licked her lips free of the glossy polish of her own blood, the tastes of iron and salt mingling together.

With strength punctured by grace, Vosta hauled the wisp of a woman out from behind her and held her at the Krodottir’s’s impossible length. She tilted her head as she looked into the eyes of the sovereign squirming in her grip, pale feet kicking fruitlessly in the air.

The Crow-Daughter said nothing as she squeezed tighter, her smile splitting her face ever wider.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 20
8/9/2023 22:00:27   
  Chewy905

Chromatic ArchKnight of RP


 Ah… how lovely.

The pained, desperate breaths of the giant rung more resonantly than any song Lyre could sing, the purple blood splattered on her dress a perfect sheet of music crafted with care.

Lyre desired more ink.

The knife twisted deeper.

Another choking gasp from the giant, another spatter of violet. The beast shifted, an arm hopelessly grasping at the conductor’s bloody baton. Lyre clung tightly to the handle. Her left arm was useless, unable to even grasp a feather, and she could barely feel her weak legs as they kicked against the steel cloak, desperate to find footing. Her eyes were failing her, shapes and spots drifting in and out of sight as she happily indulged in the sounds of her symphony. Before her consciousness could fail her, she would see this honest death through to its joyful end.

The sky screamed in place of her prey. Its roar overpowered the pounding of Lyre’s head as a whirlwind of color and cloud fell from the sky to devour one of her lesser competitors whole. Lyre laughed from her perch. If her distaste for the Lords and their formless ways was not enough to earn their ire, then what blasphemy had this poor fool performed? Through her blurred gaze and the fogless sky she could not make out a single speck of his fire! She turned her attention back to her work. When she was done, she would erase this giant from the world just the same. If the Lords could do it, so too could she.

The giant’s call shook Lyre’s feeble form and pierced her thoughts through. The resonant tone sang too strongly, too surely for a beast lingering at death’s door. From the empty stump of an arm burst forth a feathered column of muscle and rage, shimmering like a mirage in Lyre’s hazy sight. At its pinnacle sat three curled swords, sharp and deadly as they stretched and tore at the ground beneath them. Lyre desperately pulled at her knife, trying fruitlessly to tear it free from the monster’s back. The blade refused to budge. With cruelty in her eyes, she instead wrenched the tool aside, hoping to tear it up through the giant’s heart.

She never got the chance.

The crow’s arm stretched and snaked behind the monster at an impossible angle, plucking Lyre from its back like she was naught but a flea. Lyre coughed out a smattering of blood, her knife abandoned, her eyes rejecting the pitiful sight. A Song. She needed a Song.

Sing! Of-


Verse turned to a muffled scream as her legs kicked helplessly at nothing. The talons tore through her broken and bent left arm, and shattered her right to match.

A Song.

Tighter. Fire and lightning scorched her chest, needles within and without cutting her to pieces. Agony so intense she almost failed to hear the sickening crack of her ribs.

She needed-

Tighter. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, now, the world an ever-shifting whirl of white and black, sky and void. The giant tilted her head, staring deep into Lyre’s bloody and broken visage.

Ah… how lovely.

The fire in her eyes, reflecting the blaze of roaring torches. The smirk plastered upon her face, curled too high on either side. She had seen this giant’s cruel, wrathful gaze exposed upon the face of every member of her kingdom. She could not reject the memory again. She was far too weak, far too prideful, to maintain her tired lie. To feel these knives within her side was the same as the blade upon her neck… this moment before death… what beautiful inspiration it was. She wished nothing more than to sing of that day. To sing of her second coronation, her first execution, and the end of her kingdom eternal in a loud, honest truth.

All she needed…

Tighter. Something shattered within her with a sickening crunch. Bone pierced flesh. She could feel blood painting her anew, inside and out. What a beautiful canvas she made.

All she needed was…

Tighter still. Darkness became her entire world. Was it not her voice that croaked out a cough? Were those her lungs that gasped away the last of their air? Could she still feel her feeble legs as they tried to dance to her throes of death?

“Hah-”

Post #: 21
8/9/2023 22:29:59   
Kooroo
Member

The world spun around him, mixing and melding into an incoherent mess of noise and colour. Windows smashed and steel buckled as the bus tumbled down the mountain. All the while, his colleagues shouted and screamed as they were thrown from their seats and into the walls, their voices adding to the cacophony until they broke and went silent. And yet, all Devon could do was brace himself against the seat in front and wait for the chaos to stop.

And then it came, with a loud, bone-jarring—


—crunch as he slammed backfirst into the axe-toting girl, taking the unsuspecting lass off her feet. Rather fortunate for him…. Considerably less so for her.

Entangled, they rolled and bounced another couple of feet, before coming to a slow, somewhat-relieved stop.

Perhaps that was a little bit subjective, as whilst Devon was relieved that he’d been given—or technically, punched into—a lifeline, his new friend was probably shocked out of their mind.

If they were still conscious, or at least intact.

Groaning, the lucky—no, skilfull—Administrator pulled himself up out of the heap and into a half-kneel, taking in slow, yet full breaths, despite the protesting of his chest, back and waist—or rather his entire abdomen.

Miraculously, his glasses had only been knocked slightly askew and hadn’t been launched off into the stands. Just as he raised his free hand to set them right, the world—stopped—bringing an abrupt halt to the motion. Time slowed and all sound seemed to cut out, as though someone had managed to hit the Pause button on reality, catching Devon in a somewhat silly pose.

Light faded as the sky blackened and the floor beneath them trembled, sending the rocks and stones littering the Arena skittering and dancing across the tiles.

Then the heavens screamed as something whirling and thrashing slammed into the floor, sending tremors through the Administrator’s spine and into the pit of his all-too-empty belly.

And the din—stopped—movement and light flooded back into the world, and all was well. Fascinating.

With the Lords’ graces and implicit permission, Devon finished righting his spectacles and stole a nonchalant glance behind him. Just what had all that commotion been for…?

All greeted him was a charred circle of blasted tiles and incinerated ambitions.

So, not much then. Clearing out the riff raff, apparently.

Still, that made two for the obits.

Three left, then.

The Admin stretched, rolling his shoulders and turning his head, from side-to-side. No sharp, piercing pain, no dizziness—nothing except a dull throb where the man-mountain had struck him, and the empty void his stomach had become. Judging by the lack of those cues, that seemed like a relatively clean—though slightly gritty—bill of health to Devon.

If there was anything broken, he’d probably find out afterwards. Or perhaps tomorrow morning, something he felt obligated to deny from these remaining nutters.

Ah, jumping back a thought and speaking of broken…

“Gosh, that was amazingly good timing, if I do say so myself. Much obliged, young miss,” he smiled, dusting himself off and laying the falcata aside. “And how’re you faring? Alive, are we? Intact?

The response was concise and eloquent, for something completely incoherent.

Hands in coat pockets, Devon nodded sympathetically. “I see, I see…”

Right, well. That made this easy. A nice and simple one for obit number three.

Nice and quiet.

“Shame,” he said simply, and then swung his left hand, bringing the rock thundering down—


—on his seat belt buckle. Nothing. Guess this is what happens when no one uses the damn things.

Fortunately, his falcata hadn’t budged from where Devon’d stowed it; under his seat. It helped that he’d had a foot planted on top of it practically the entire trip, but ingenuity aside, he now had a way out.

Another five seconds to cut the belt and then he was out, into the aisle. It was … a sight to behold, certainly. One of the sights of all time, you might say.

Whilst most of the armoured bus’ interior was still intact—the lack of windows certainly helped—the same couldn’t be said for his colleagues. Most had ended up in the aisle, with bruises, lacerations, and some impossibly bent limbs. A few were still in their seats or—judging by their poses—had ended up in someone else's'.

Like he’d said… A sight to behold. One Devon had frequently delivered as part of Spec Ops, but this had been the first time he’d been the recipient of such a package. A humbling and… what was the word?

The greenhorn’s pondering was cut short by a distant shout and even more distant responses. Looks like the couriers had come down to confirm the delivery.

Devon could ponder later, then—after he’d given them a signature.

He breathed out, releasing the air he’d been unconsciously holding, then started making his way to the front of the bus, weaving and stepping between the bodies. Row by row, the rookie Admin made his way down, ransacking each overhead compartment until he reached the front.

It was there that he found Ania sprawled against the bus’ front entrance. Most of her seemed fine—all her limbs were accounted for—but her neck was at an angle that would make a contortionist cringe and elicited a lengthy hesitation from Devon.

The only other object of interest at the front was a long, hardened case, right underneath Ania. Gently, he pulled it out from beneath her, as though not to disturb his colleague. Devon flipped the case open and pulled out a…

A flintlock? And… just one bullet? What good was one measly little—well, okay, It was actually pretty big. But what was one rifle bul—

It was at that moment the distant voices became not-so-distant and much more distinguishable.

“See? What’d I tell ya? We hit her clean an’ hard. Hey, listen…” Followed by a rattling bang, metal on metal, against the rear wall of the bus.

“Hear that? Nothin’. Quiet as a church mouse, I tell ya!”

And that was followed by some hooting, much hollering, more banging…

Devon took a deep breath as he loaded the flintlock, dousing the anger stirring in the pit of his stomach. It was hard to say with the voices overlapping each other but he guesstimated… seven? Maybe eight?

Eight jokers, who’d managed to take out over thirty of his colleagues. A one-for-four deal certainly didn’t seem like an adequate exchange, but it was what he was given.

With his finger on the trigger, the ex-Commando aimed the rifle towards the rear of the bus.

Quiet, eh? Oh, how wrong that berk was...

Falcata in his spare left, he brought it up and struck backwards with the pommel, slamming it into—


—into the lass’ materialised sword, with a reverberating crang. An interesting little shadowy blade, which made a most unusual sound.

Looks like this one wasn’t going to go quietly after all.
AQW Epic  Post #: 22
8/9/2023 22:39:48   
Oddball
Member

Dear Diary. One day remains
Well, tomorrow’s the big day! ‘Nervous’ doesn’t begin to cover how I’m feeling right now. I know most of us still have the thing with Coach still fresh in our minds and I’m terrified at what his absence means for the team in the future… I don’t know what I’d do if the team ended up disbanding after the meet.
Oh on the topic of, it’s being held in the big city up North, so we’ve got a fun three hour coach journey waiting for us at 5AM.
Gotta keep this one brief, it’s already past midnight and I need to try and get some adequate rest tonight.
I just hope everything goes well tomorrow.

Parralia Anita



”Is this really worth it?”

A question that was too late to be pondered found its way into Parralia’s thoughts as she charged towards her target. While she would usually argue back that yes, of course this was worth the risks acquainted with it… She’d give anything for the chance of saving her world.
But something sinister was taking root inside the back of her mind, causing the girl to second guess herself and focus solely on the negatives.
Her world that took everything from her.
The world that beat her down, and broke her countless times.
…Did a world like that really deserve saving?

Unseen by the world, the girl's teeth clenched. The weight of her shadow was overbearing, too heavy for just a single weak girl who couldn’t keep her promise.

“Parralia. Eyes up!”

A voice, her own voice, came piercing through the doubt with a strict urgency she only resigned to use in dire emergencies. It was enough of a warning that Parralia had just enough time to attempt to bring her axe up to block the blow coming from the giant.

All that awaited her was the horrific sound of an endless swarm of crows,each one individually attempting to cry louder than its predecessor. The hellish noise overtook her senses, with even her own spiraling thoughts being washed away by the all-encompassing storm…

At least it washed away the mud.

Parralia couldn’t find the motivation to form a proper defensive stance before the giant’s spear clashed with her axe, the girl lacking the strength to keep her balance against the overwhelming strength. She was lucky that the blow didn’t completely knock her off of her feet, but she barely had the time to think about her next move before a sharp pain ruptured across her back.


Was that another person?

A mess of tangled limbs and curses followed as Parralia was swept off balance, and brought hurtling through the air like some sort of ragdoll. She could only curl up tightly to try and minimize any incoming damage from the crash.



”Kiddo, you okay? You look a little spaced out.

The comforting voice of her devillish friend soothed the girl’s troubled heart. She knew that she could always count on their help.
They always turned up when Parralia was at her lowest.

“I’m… not having a good time.”

“Well that’s clear to see. What ails you?”

“Do you think I’m cut out for this?”

At her question, the Devil shifted back in their chair, eyes narrowing a little in thought.

“Do you?”

“I…I don’t know anymore.”

“You can’t afford to be indecisive, Parr. You need to be able to give me a concise answer.”

“I…”

Was she really the hero she believed herself to be? Or was she just playing pretend in a doomed world?
The answer never came, no matter how hard she wished it to.

“I can’t answer the question for you, Parr. This is your story. You decide how it ends.”



Parralia startled awake with a spluttering cough, bringing herself up to her hands and knees before toppling over onto her back, falling to the ground with a heavy thud and a sigh. The other competitor who had been caught up in the collision knelt beside her. Their mouth was moving, but the magical girl could not make sense of the words being said.

She mumbled out a groggy response to a question she had half heard, Parralia was too focused on trying to stop the world from spinning when a flash of movement caught her attention. The blurred image of the person beside her lifted an object into the air and had started to bring it down towards the downed Parralia.

No..Not yet. She still needed to make her wish.

The sound of rock on metal echoed across the arena as Parralia called one of her blades over to protect her from the sudden attempt on her life.

Now? She was focused, she had a set target.

She could only hope her shadow would stay quiet.
AQ DF AQW Epic  Post #: 23
8/12/2023 20:35:19   
Apocalypse
Member

Bone cleaved through bone, greataxe severing through the low man’s shoulder and down to his hips in a single motion. Vosta laughed at the sound of his shrill scream and kicked him off her weapon in a geyser of scarlet. The violent spray coated her leather tunic and soaked her through to the chest. Precious few drops splattered against her mouth and chin. She licked her lips clean with a snarling grin. The low folk spilled their blood so easily. A cry from behind her, and Vosta pivoted on her heel to avoid a lunging spearman. His gait carried him past the Jotnari, and she twirled on her feet with her greataxe in tow. It glided through the air silently, slashing open the spearman’s calf to send him tumbling to the ground facefirst. Perhaps after this battle it would be seen fit for her to name her weapon and chisel in its own sound - a fearsome howling worthy to succeed the laughter of her father’s spear. The warclad made a quick dash forwards and stomped the spearman’s head into the dirt with a crisp crack. His erratic flailings ceased all at once as red watered the soil of his harvest.

Vosta threw her head back and laughed. Dark clouds rumbled overhead as all around her the Crowcallers laid waste to the low folk. Their screams and cries fell on her ears like a long-lost lullaby. Since she was a little girl, her father dreamed of taking the plains for their people - to crown himself King of Crows and announce his daughter as the Jarl of Gods’ Peak.

On this day, that dream would at last take root.

“We breathe by his word.”

She turned and found herself staring down a pair of low folk wielding harvesting equipment, eyes widened in fear yet jaws set firm. Vosta flashed a smile at her foes and watched their legs tremble. But they did not retreat - no, they stood their ground against the reckoning born of giant’s blood. Vosta sneered. Their courage was to be commended. She caught sight of a blur of movement behind the pair and whistled sharply. The first of the low folk crumpled without a sound as Helrun plunged twin sets of blades into his back, the lithe Jotnari snuffing out his life like a candle's flame. The other took no notice of her ally’s demise as she shrieked, dropping her scythe and throwing up her hands as Feylor fell upon her. The carrion crow carved a series of gashes with beak and talon across her arms and face until Helrun granted her the mercy of a quick death.

Vosta grinned. Commended, not rewarded.

“Your knives are as sharp and quick as your loyalty,” Vosta said. Her bloodsworn nodded her head, keen eyes still flicking left and right over the skirmish. The low folk were broken, scattering back to regroup. The warclad paid no heed to their retreat - her bloodsworn would break them again. Vosta stepped forward to Helrun and placed a hand on her shoulder, rough and firm. “You would make a fine warclad.”

“Clad Vosta!”

The Jotnari’s gaze shifted from Helrun to the approaching Frideir before following their extended arm pointing towards the sky. A dark shape pierced through the blanket of grey in a rapid descent punctuated by discordant cawing. Each beat of its wings grew more urgent than the last. Vosta raised a hand to shade her sight. “Ba’jorn?”

“Death! Death!”

She opened her mouth to respond when a pillar of brilliant lightning erupted from the far side of the field. It leapt to touch the sky, its cerulean energy crackling and booming like an anthem of war. Vosta’s heart froze in her chest to where the lightning had dissipated - to where her father had pressed on ahead.

“DEEEEEAAATH!”

“Felyor, come!” Vosta said, already in a sprint. Her greataxe weighed heavy in her hands as her heart pounded within her chest. “Bloodsworn, to me! For Jarl Vostadt and Grandfather Crow!”

And Vosta ver Vostadteir charged into the storm.



The lying queen kicked and struggled within the Krodottir’s iron grip, an animal trapped within a cage. Vosta’s breath quickened at the lying queen’s dying throes, at the blood dribbling over her talons. So warm. Her blood burned so warm. She squeezed tighter, hearing a joyous crunch that elicited an even more entrancing gasp from the sovereign. Talons thrummed against her prey’s side, searching for that cracked and broken bone buried beneath the skin. She craved to unleash a war beat upon them, to repay the favor of all the agony and havoc wrought by the deathsinger’s melodies. To match her inverted spears by penetrating and perforating her from the inside out by blades she could not touch, blades she could only witness when they would sprout from her ribs like twisted thorns. The Crow-Daughter laughed, blood and bile spewing from her lips. Twisted thorns for a twisted rose. Just a little more and then…

…and then…

Vosta felt her gaze fall to the ruinous rubble on the floor, the individual formations blurring together in a singular blotchy mess. Ruins. Yes, she was surrounded by ruins. She blinked, the ground now scattered with bodies bleeding purple and red, rivers of blood trickling together into dark pools.

Her eyelids hung heavy, yearning to drape across her vision. Just a little longer-

K R O D O T T I R

Vosta opened her eyes, not remembering when she had closed them. The deathsinger still thrashed in her grip, but every kick of her legs - every writhe of her body - grew weaker than the last. The warclad raised her head, the bodies gone with nothing but pale marble and the trickling of water left in their wake. Her body no longer burned. Her muscles no longer screamed in protest. Instead, a coldness seeped into her, a frost permeating the Jotnari down to the bone. Everywhere cold as ice…except in the Krodottir.

K R O D O T T I R

Vosta shivered. “Is that you, Ol’ Crow?”

She raised her gaze to the figure within her grasp. In one vision still squirmed the lying queen, her body as spent as her song. In the other…

…in the other…

…a shadowclad figure of undulating wings cresting over themselves in a perpetual tempest.

The figure watched Vosta, still as stone in spite of its fluctuating form. Feathers poured in and over her talons, slipping through like liquid and defying gravity’s unyielding embrace. Vosta coughed, wet and loud. “Ol’ Crow, is this why you’ve brought me here?”

The shadowclad figure stood defiant; silence its answer.

Vosta’s head bobbed as she fought to keep herself upright. She was kneeling in violet water that had not been there before. The Crow-Daughter coughed twice, hand fumbling at her belt as she pulled in the twin figures. The sovereign’s feet bumped against the ground - when had she grown so heavy? - but the shadowclad figure simply morphed around any obstacle in its way, feathers pouring over stone and marble before reforming once more.

“Silence and free,” Vosta mumbled to herself, drawing the Jarlman. The two lay within reach now, not half a foot from the Jotnari’s own face. The lying queen’s visage struck the palest she had ever seen on a low folk, the crimson a beautiful adornment to the skin and the veil.

The shadowclad’s figure composed a terror beyond her comprehension.

A maelstrom of talons and beaks surging deeper and deeper to tear away at the obscured face screaming beneath. Eyes of amber, lips of pale blue, and nose and ears bleeding harsh violet ripped and shredded again and again in an eternal punishment condemned by an unforgiving god.

Vosta pressed the shaking Jarlman to the necks of the deathsinger and shadowclad figure, to release them all from their torment.

“Silence…and free…”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 24
8/13/2023 2:46:54   
Kooroo
Member

“... regulations such as transportation seat belts are enforced by Team Captains. If there are any breaches brought to our attention, then we will hold the responsible individuals accountable and reprimand them as necessary,” Yvelle explained to Devon, eyes and pen never leaving the papers before her.

“The Team Captain died in the initial crash,” Devon replied, matter-of-factly.

“Then the matter will be postponed indefinitely. Sign in this box please,” The Director tapped a signature box on the form and pushed it across to him.

He signed the indicated line, made a mental note of the Team ID—IFR-ZTR921—and pushed it back, then leant back in his seat. “Then just make me a Captain then. I’ll set them straight and keep them alive.”

“Certainly, I’ll review your request,” Yvelle said, smiling as she reached for an Approval push stamp. “Have you reconsidered my proposal about reassignment to one of the Specialty Departments?”

This again. Did she have a quota or something she had to fill each week?

Despite his irritation, Devon forced what he hoped was a genuine smile to his face. Perhaps he should start practising before his meetings with Yvelle, though hopefully they’d be fewer-and-farther between from here on. “No, I haven’t. I’d much rather work in a team than individually. At least, for the time being.”

“May I ask the reason?”

Well at least this was new, if not a bit strange. He shrugged. “I’ve worked in both a squad and on an individual basis in my prior job. The squad work was better, so long as my squad mates were… tolerable.”

“I see. And would this have something to do with your resignation from—“

Devon could feel his smile tightening. “With all due respect, miss, I’d prefer not to go over this right now.”

“Of course, my apologies. And please, call me Yvelle,” The Director said, smiling all the while. She brought the stamp down on the forms with a light click and thump, then lifted—


—the marble shard off the lass’ blade, which melted away.

So, another tricky little Weapon Spawner, huh? Well, the Outer Realms were known for their whacky and zany characters after all. Still, what if he—

Something blurred at him from the side, just as the Admin was about to knee his quarry in the face. Another blackened blade, coming in for a… horizontal? Damn.

Devon threw himself to the side as the blade swung through the space he’d been occupying a half-second earlier. The motion turned into a roll and the ex-soldier snatched up his falcata as he spun over it, pocketing the rock once more. He righted himself, coming up into a low half-crouch…

As something—yet another of those blasted swords—chopped down, trying to take his head.

Cursing, he pushed off his right hand and threw himself back, scrambling to both feet just as the pair of twin blades came at him again.

A left chest-ward thrust from one, which he side-stepped just in time to twist away from an arcing right slash at Devon’s neck from the other.

Then both came in quick succession—diagonal, criss-crossing chops made possible by the lack of arms wielding them. Any lesser—or well, more material—swordsperson would’ve tangled their limbs up and been made easy pickings.

‘Easy Pickings’ almost became his middle name as Devon shimmied to the side, barely avoiding the left blade, then parrying the right—

—causing it to vanish, melting into thin air.

Ah. Well at least that made things simpl—

The left blade came swinging in again, from its namesake side.

Oh bother, was all Devon managed to think as he made to step, though a touch late. He felt a surge of pain as the tip sliced into his left sleeve, biting into his raised forearm.

With nary a chuckle or any form of fanfare, the obsidian blade melted into the air, as its sibling had before it.

Muttering darkly, he reached over and probed the wound with his fingers. They came away bloody—only slightly bloody, so he wasn’t going to bleed out any time at least. But even a nick was more than enough to ruin a dress shirt. Even with all the technology that Administration had at their disposal, they still hadn’t developed anything that cleaned out bloodstains.

Some other agents in Public Safety and Order would undoubtedly be of the opinion that a dress shirt was a small price to pay. And Devon was of the opinion that those exact agents were dolts that had low standards, single-digit intelligence quantifiers, and probably believed that polyester sweatpants made for ‘high fashion’. Philistines.

And on the topic of tawdry folks, had that young lass managed to stand up in all that commotion?

Devon glanced over, just in time to see pitch-coloured bolt lance—or more like jet towards him, bloody hell. He raised his left, just in time to catch it on his slashed forearm, eliciting a hiss of discomfort.

What an amazing catch. The damn thing smarted, certainly. But… it didn’t seem to do much else, aside from serve as a wake up call. Not dissimilar to weak coffee.

As though reading his thoughts, the impertinent lass fired off another bolt, right for his head again.

Nope, not this time. Apologies miss.

Taking a single step forward, the ex-Commando leant slightly to his right, lifting and ‘chopping’ with his blade as he did. The result was akin to a backhand slice, the projectile striking and then ricocheting back off the blade’s flat as he did. Then, he continued the motion and pivoted on the ball of his right foot, swapping halfway through the rotation to his left.

His falcata drew level with his shoulders as Devon finished the spin, and in less than a heartbeat, he pulled the trigger.

The sword barked. The bullet soared.

There was a light ping as he ejected its case, fully masked by the Administrator’s steps as he made steady tracks towards his mark.
AQW Epic  Post #: 25
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