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Ultimate deathmatch 4 Yes, YES! Drink his Blood!

#1 User is offline   Morgoth 

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Posted 17 January 2009 - 12:51 AM

There will be nothing posted here but final submissions

past games and winners:

Fantasy Deathmatch - BAD
Ultimate Deathmatch - DIB
Ultimate Deathmatch II - Morgoth
Ultimate Gauntlet - No winner
Ultimate Deathmatch III - no winner
Take good care to keep relations civil
It's decent in the first of gentlemen
To speak friendly, Even to the devil
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#2 User is offline   Yellow 

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Posted 18 January 2009 - 12:45 AM

He knocked back the last dregs of the beer. It was cold and tasted of weak piss - just how he liked it. He did everything he could these days to maintain that buzz, that last dreg of something soft.

Everything else was so damned hard.

If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the whup, whup, whup of the choppahs, still smell the tramp-pants, could still see Tom Hanks dancing on that god-damned piano with all the lights in the keys. He hated that thing.

It was almost too much to take... but then he remembered the mullets, the perfect asymmetry of those moussed-up pompadours, and he knew there was so much more to take. There was always more, waiting for him on the edge of sanity.

He finished off the beer while he watched the Delorian make its way down the drive, all the while thinking, Damn, couldn't they have chosen another car? They didn't care any more, he realised. He was nothing to them - just a haggard, heart-fallen veteran of a crazy time nobody wanted to remember. Hell, they didn't want to admit to it at all.

A buzz-cut in army slacks got out of the car, struggling with the door. He took a fat cigar from his pocket and lit a match to its head, rolling that sucker around between his teeth.

How appropriate.

The buzz-cut made his way down the drive, and thumped loud on the swing door. "Estévez?" he shouted. "Emilio Estévez?"

Emilio sighed, wished he had another beer. This was going to be painful. "Get the fuck off my porch!"

"Mr. Estévez, I have a message for you. It's of vital importance."

"Unless it's signed and sealed by the president himself, I don't give a shit."

There was a moment of silence, just enough to build a glimmer of hope in his soul.

"Well, then, Mr. Estévez," said Buzz-cut, 'you'd better let me in, hadn't you?'

Painful light shone into the house as Emilio swung back the door. Buzz-cut, complete in black helicopter shades, held out the letter to him. He didn't take it, didn't want to touch it. All the memories would come flooding back if he did.

"Why don't you tell me what this is all about?" he said.

"We need your help, Estévez. It's all turned to shit. We're talking major hell-in-a-handbasket."

"Why is that my problem?"

Emilio ran a hand through his once-long hair, remembered how shiny it used to be. Fuck, even Charlie had said how much he liked it. He'd cut it years ago, hoping to give himself more time. Always looking for more time.

"All the big names are failing," said Buzz, slowly taking off his glasses, for the effect. "Smith, Clooney, Willis... the list goes on. They just can't pull in the gross any more."

"That's not my problem, man. I'm out of that game."

"It's everyone's problem, don't you see that? The numbers start falling, people stop caring, and before you know it, Hollywood's just some kind of bad joke you tell to your grandchildren. I mean, shit - did you even see Hancock?"

"I saw it," said Emilio, though the words tasted bitter in his mouth. "I though it was... ok. Sort of."

"Fourteen million people died after seeing that film. I wouldn't call that ok, not by a long stretch of the imagination."

"What's your point?"

"The industry needs to take a new turn if we're going to make it out of this decade alive. You know that, I know that, everyone knows that. The nineties were fun enough. Special effects had just been invented for real, and we had Terminator 2, which made it bearable... but then Titanic came along. We still haven't recovered."

"Hey, man, I'm out of that game. I hung up that sword years ago."

He licked his lips. He could almost taste the popcorn.

"You can't kid me, Estévez. You were in Mission Impossible, and the Mighty Ducks."

"Nobody saw those films, nobody cared. The nineties were just a joke, just a last-ditch shot, you know? I can't do that any more. I'm a grown man, with a sensible haircut. I left that world behind."

"You can still do it! You can't give it up - it's in your blood. We tried going forward, but it's not working. We need to go back, we need to bring back all that was once good about film-making."

"Fuck you, man! The eighties are gone! I barely made it out alive, and you want me to drag myself back in there?"

Buzz sighed, dropped his stogie to the deck. He stomped on it good, smeared its contents to the mud. "We need you, kid. Van Damme tried something fresh, but we couldn't secure the ad-buys. Stallone had a shot with Rambo, but he was just too old. You're our last hope. xXx 3 is coming out in a couple of years, and it could all be over if we let that happen."

"I wasn't an action star, man. I could drop in a quip, maybe a snappy little smile here and there, but I was no muscle man."

"You were Billy the Kid, god damn it. Doesn't that count for anything? Don't worry - we've thought of everything. There's a competition being held in a secret base, somewhere off the coast of Mexico. It'll be perfect - you can grow your hair back, practice the smile, and all the while hone your skills and prepare your moves for the action comeback of the 21st century."

He wasn't impressed.

"I don't know," he said, "that's a lot of work. I might need a montage."

Buzz smiled, all cheese and whizz.

"Kid, don't you worry," he said. "We've got all the montage you need."





========

Hear them cry.

Emilio... Emilio... Emil-i-o!! Emil-i-o!!
Don't fuck with the Culture.
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#3 User is offline   Tapper 

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Posted 18 January 2009 - 11:50 AM

The things I do for God… Father Anthony took a deep breath, then walked up the yard. A burnt out, smashed car greeted him. The door to the trailer was unlocked, half opened.
He knocked. No answer.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

“YES?” a deep, sonorous voice answered, a voice filled with threat.

“I’m looking for Trouble!?”

“YOU HAVE FOUND IT” the voice answered. “COME ON IN. COFFEE?”

“Yes please.”

“TAKE A SEAT, I’M IN THE KITCHEN AND WILL BE WITH YOU SHORTLY.”

There were two chairs, both covered by plastic, facing the wall and a hammock of gargantuan size. One chair was occupied by a black cat, so he took the other one. The small table between them was graced by a smashed whiskey bottle, a single welted rose in it. There was a battered coffee table in front of the chairs, facing the hammock. Anthony sat and waited, listening to the sounds of beans being grinded, boiling hot water and the tingling of pottery being manhandled in a rough way.

The kitchen door was kicked open, crashed into the wall. A dust cloud filled the small living room. What stepped into the room could only be described as a thing. Black military boots, a huge trenchcoat, collar up. Wide-rimmed black felt hat drawn down so as to nearly touch the collar. Between them, just darkness. Gloved, ham sized fists clutched a Port Marion china cup and matching saucer. “MILK OR SUGAR?” it asked.

“No milk, but two lumps, please.”

“I RAN OUT OF SUGAR.” The sentence started apologetic, but built into aggression.

“On second thought… black will do just fine, thank you.”

“SO, WHAT IS IT YOU WANT?”

“I’m here on behalf of the Vatican,” Father Anthony said. “You see, there is this tournament… and the Vatican has been asked to send a fighter.”

“I AM THE MASTER OF MAYHEM. I AM THE DELIVERER OF DESTRUCTION. THE SMASHER OF SKULLS. THE BUTCHER ON THE BATTLEFIELD. THE CREATOR OF CARNAGE. AND YOU WANT ME TO ENTER a boxing competition?” The voice rose a full two octaves.

“It is no ordinary competition. You’ll be fighting God knows what kind of heretics, aliens, giant robots, demons and probably a god or two, as well… it sounded like a job for the entity known nowadays as Trouble In A Trenchcoat.”

Something white glimmered in the darkness between the rimmed hat and the trenchcoat. Was it fear?

THAT IS JUST A STAGE NAME. THIS TOURNAMENT SOUNDS MORE LIKE A JOB FOR WAR. YOU KNOW, THE ARMORED GUY, BLACK STEED, HUGE SWORD, HELMET SHAPED LIKE A SKULL… I AM ONE OF THE FOUR PEDESTRIANS… you know… Violence, Influenza, Poverty and Depression… THE HORSEMEN ARE WHAT YOU REALLY WANT… THIS REALLY SOUNDS LIKE IT’S OUT OF MY LEAGUE.”

Time to change tacks. They had warned him it might come to this. A few centuries ago, this thing held nations in its grip, led charges, gave the courage to deliver death. From Iliad to Second World War, this entity was celebrated and, sad as it was, deemed necessary, terrible as it was. And look at it now... pathetic, lonesome, operating under a badly chosen stagename like a comic book hero. The shrivelled old priest took a deep breath.

“Let’s be honest, Trouble. You’re not exactly a success in today’s civilization. You have changed from a celebrated champion to a sad man’s icon. Your sole last worshippers are drunk hooligans and people who want to cheer at blood in anything-goes cage fights. People who keep pit bulls because it makes them look cool.

The entity known as Violence is done for.

What’s more, look around you. This trailer, it needs new wallpaper, new wheels, new furniture. Your last three jobs have been as a bouncer, a bodyguard and dubbing voice overs for the World Wrestling Federation. All three got you fired within the day, without payment and with bills for broken furniture, smashed equipment, and refunding the hospitalization of your co-presenter and subsequent plastic surgery on his nose.

So, I think you should take this opportunity. It will be good for your self-esteem, and the Church will pay you handsomely. Lastly, it is a chance to establish the name of Trouble In A Trenchcoat to all the pay-per-view watchers. You know how many will tune-in if the Vatican asks its flock to watch? Right. So, we’ll offer you a 2% share of our cut. Deal?”

=====

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you... TRRRROUBLE IN A.... TRENCHCOAT!

Everyone is entitled to his own wrong opinion. - Lizrad
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#4 User is offline   Shinrei 

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Posted 18 January 2009 - 02:20 PM

As the black kevlar clad men entered the room they found the child alone, huddled in the center of the barren space. A scrap of barely sufficient cloth was all the child wore. The men edged to either side, hands displayed to show they carried no weapons. Leon entered the room last, trying to appear confident but knowing he bled unease.

"She's dead, isn't she." The little boy spoke. The voice was quiet, but so full of anguish that a flash of sympathy filtered through Leon's discomfort.

"She's.....gone." Leon admitted.

The boy clasped his bare knees and bowed his head. A ragged sob escaped the huddled figure.

Leon waited a few moments and then began, "We're not like the others. We are here to offer you something. You can... avenge your mother."

The boy looked up sharply, and against his will Leon took a step backwards. "Against WHO can I have revenge!" the boy spat. "You are all the same. You all think the same. About us...." The boy lowered his head. "About me." he corrected more softly.

Leon chose his words carefully. "The men who arranged for your mother to be killed. We can give you a way past their safe havens, give you the moment of exposure that you need to kill them."

Without lookin up, the boy wiped tears and a trail of snot from his face. "How." He whispered.

"There is a tournament. Combatents battle to the death. Because of their interest in the participants, they will have no choice but to attend. If you make it to the final round, my men and I promise we can create your opportunity to strike." As he spoke Leon could feel the tension leave his body as he imagined being rid of those schemers once and for all. Free to act. Free to run the organization as saw fit. He looked back down at the boy.

The boy was quietly regarding him. It suddenly occurred to Leon that he may have made a grave mistake. If the boy decided to lash out blindly in anger rather than seek revenge, he and his men were all as good as dead.

As if reading his thoughts, the boy spoke, "Why do your men wear kevlar? You know it wouldn't help in the least."

Leon, genuinely afraid he had made a grave misjudgement spoke, voice shaking, "We couldn't appear as doing nothing to protect ourselves."

The boy slowly nodded. "I will fight." He said simply.

Leon nodded dumbly and watched the boy stand. For just a fleeting moment he thought he saw tiny black appendages, like spider legs, aid the boy upright. "Just like his mother..." He thought. And shivered.

This post has been edited by Shinrei no Shintai: 18 January 2009 - 02:23 PM

You’ve never heard of the Silanda? … It’s the ship that made the Warren of Telas run in less than 12 parsecs.
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#5 User is offline   Mezla PigDog 

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Posted 18 January 2009 - 03:33 PM

The boy waited in the sparse room. An air of expectant energy clung to him as tight as his ye olde leggings clung to his behind. He shifted the weight of his shiny new sword in the belt buckled at his waist.

"Ultimate deathmatch", he muttered to himself, absentmindedly tapping his fingers on his downy jaw. He wished they would get on with things. He needed to finish this business and collect his newfound fame and glory at the door. Nobody in the village would believe him when he got home!

He recalled leaving the homestead with the last of the seasons bullocks, heading for the market. Pa had yelled something after him, no doubt some insinuation that would be conned out of a good price for the herd. The man's mind was as twisted as his bad leg, especially since he blamed the boy for Ma dying in that freak kitchen fire. Her smouldering shoes were all they could find to bury.

The market had been as the market always was. There was some commotion about three mysterious strangers staying at the Inn. He caught a glimpse of them in the distance, riding horses that must shit gold if the cut of their clothes was anything to go by. They were here to investigate the death of the fellow who kept to himself in the cabin in the enchanted forest. Funny that anyone would want to investigate a mad old man who had been mauled by some animal in the woods. The old chap used to stop by the homestead every few years. He would tell far-fetched stories about Princes adopted by farmers who went on the save the world. He would also touch the boy in funny places when Pa was not looking.

The boy was about to head off when his breath caught in his throat, his heart hit the roof of his mouth and he got an odd feeling in his hand-me-down undergarments. The prettiest girl in the village was herding pigs across the market square towards him, a gentle breeze ruffled her hair. Beneath her pig shit spattered skirts, it seemed her dainty feet glided across the churned mud. She smiled at him as she went by and he realised he was in love and would gladly die to save her from harm.

Well, the successes of the day sure caused for a pat on the back. Not only did he get a good price for the herd but a girl had smiled at him. He took the long route back to enjoy the last of the summer sunshine and then into the enchanted forest by the old mans cabin to get home through the back pasture. As he walked, he hefted a fallen branch in the way he had seen the knights flourish their swords on the Kings Road when they killed peasants for sport. He would be a knight one day, and then he would marry the prettiest girl in the village, live in a big house and have a bath every week.

Life took an unexpected twist when he got to the cabin. The first thing he noticed was a pile of dead generic monsters outside the entrance to the cabin. The second thing was the swarm of live generic monsters leering menacingly at him and brandishing barbaric weapons. The third thing was that he had soiled himself.

"Awwww, shucks" he blurted and dropped his branch.

Just in the nick of time, the three strangers from the village emerged at the cabin door. There was the crackle of sorcery and the clash of weapons, then he fell down and hit his head.

When he awoke, the strangers told him that the prettiest girl in the village had been kidnapped. They gave him a magical sword and suggested he go on a quest. Stopping off at the homestead to collect some things, he discovered Pa and been horribly butchered; it came as quite a comfort when the strangers revealed the boy was adopted at birth.

So here he was! A lowly farm boy who had discovered his true identity only three days previous. His name was Fantassy Kleesh'ay and he was about to save the girl he loved and avenge his adopted father by fighting evil doers in an Ultimate Deathmatch.

Inside the arena, two men and woman smiled smugly as they settled in the plush seats of the Farm-Boy-U-Like Ltd executive box. With the resurrection of the Ultimate Deathmatch, business was booming once again.

This post has been edited by Mezla PigDog: 18 January 2009 - 03:41 PM

Burn rubber =/= warp speed
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#6 User is offline   Bauchelain the Evil 

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Posted 18 January 2009 - 04:09 PM

The cloaked and hooded man who stood outside the small building was new to our world and for now he wasn’t liking it much. But he wasn’t worried: if he couldn’t adapt to this world then the world would adapt itself to him.

At least he would have lots of work here. In fact he had been in this dimension only for a few hours and already someone had asked for his services.

He entered. It was indeed a small room. The only furniture inside was a chair and on the chair sat a man: the typical heavy muscled thug with crooked teeth and no hair.

“And you are?” The thug asked.

“You may call me Shade”

“That’s not your real name” the bald man frowned

“I agree. In fact I’ve never said what my name was. Now if you can stand aside.”

“Stand aside?!” There was anger in the thug’s voice and he was now slowly rousing to his feet. He never finished the motion: a bolt of silver energy slammed him against the door at the far end of the room ,breaking it. The man was on the floor unconscious or dead. Shade didn’t care.

No. What he cared were the two in the room on the other side of the now broken door. He was there faster than humanly possible driving a knife that had appeared from nowhere in the first guy’s gut. The other fired a shot and, as he turned to face him, Shade felt pain near his right shoulder.

Guns. Possibly the only useful things in this world, but, alas , they didn’t help that man as a greyish portal appeared, taking him in the worst place Shade could think of.

“ How the hell did you that?!”

The hooded man spun and saw who had spoken: a tall, lean , elegantly dressed man. Two longswords formed in his hands

“ Wait!” The elegant man raised his arms “ I have something to tell you”

“Speak.”

“Are you interested in participating in a tournament?”

“A tournament? Between champions?”The longswords shimmered, then vanished

“Yes. Although” the man smiled “ I doubt there’s someone as good as you”

“Vey well. Tell me where it is and I will spare you. But know this: if you have tricked me , you’re a dead man”

The elegant man told him. Shade opened a portal but before disappearing a knife soared in the air and plunged in the man’s chest.

For Shade wasn’t someone that left works unfinished.

This post has been edited by Bauchelain the Evil: 19 January 2009 - 05:17 PM

Adept of Team Quick Ben

I greet you as guests and so will not crush the life from you and devour your soul with peals of laughter. No, instead, I will make tea-Gothos
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#7 User is offline   Morgoth 

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Posted 18 January 2009 - 07:03 PM

.. I got a bit carried away..

........

She was beautiful, the widow. Standing there, alone, apart, she could fill your vision like a classic painting. The few glimpses of white skin in such stark contrast to the midnight of her dress. Beneath her veil, lines of black tell a sad tale along the prominent bone of her cheeks. Quietly she rearranges her hands. Never, it seems, knowing quite what to do with them. Her eyes stay on the ground. There's nothing in the world for her worth seeing. Not anymore.

Ben, standing directly across the grave has found himself utterly spellbound. Looking at her, at her heartbreaking loneliness and vulnerability, he cannot help but feel a stab of pride, and perhaps, yes... he admits it willingly, a mild arousal. She is someone else now, than she was just a few days ago. A new being has emerged as his creation. It strikes him then that in many ways he is a god. A minor one perhaps, but this is not a question of scale. And besides, he is not yet done.

Staring at her, it takes some time before Ben realizes he has not looked at the psalm book held open in his hand. His voice has never wavered. He knows the songs by heart. How many times has this occurred, he wonders. Ten times? Twenty? It strikes him then that he can no longer remember them anymore, his widows. At least not all of them. How many grieving women have been lost within the muddle of his memories? A gloom strikes him then. A shadow sucking all the joy out of the day. If the new replace, instead of adding to, the old ones. What then is the point of continuing?

The Pub is darker than it should be, perhaps reflecting Ben's mood as he stares into the foamy sludge at the bottom of his pint. This should've been his day of celebration, when he could toast to yet another Work finished. Instead he sits in silence, emptying one glass of Guinness after the other, hardly tasting the silky pleasure of the bitter brew. He understands now that he cannot continue with his Work. It has become too familiar, too static. It will no longer keep him from the terrible ennui that always stalks his kind. A change of scenery is what he needs. And just like that, he understands what he must do.

The bright and red door swings open with the tiniest of creaks. Ben can't help but wince even though he knows a firefight couldn't penetrate the solid wall of sound that is the Missus' snoring. It is the truth. It has been tried. Still however, he cannot help but edge silently along the corridor towards the entrance to the basement. Every step is panic. The door is so far away and already the floor is slippery with the sweat of his feet. If She wakes, Ben knows he will not be allowed to continue. He knows not the number of men he has killed but against the powers of the Missus' fists he can do nothing. Better then to use stealth.

It is still there, thank god. A rotten cardboard box among many others. No one would ever think of looking for it there. Almost reverently he lifts off the top. Dust cascades down his dirty sweater and without warning a wave of terror runs through him. He hasn't been down here for years. What if it's gone? What if someone's found it? But then the lid comes all the way off and relief floods him like a drug. Yellow light bathes his face as he stares down on his pot of gold. He stays there for a short while, then he quickly pulls out the green suit, the high hat, the fake beard (Ben himself couldn't grow a beard if he had a lifetime). Fully dressed he slips on the heavy, pointy shoes, and finally straps on his bow and arrows, and his beautiful silver sword.

In all his green and red glory Ben Doran emerges from his little house with its red door and cute window drapes. His pot of gold is securely held under his arm and a savage grin gleams from beneath his slightly askew fake beard. Soon he will once more drink the blood of his enemies. Again he will dance his jig in the entrails of his victims. And this time, it will be special.
Take good care to keep relations civil
It's decent in the first of gentlemen
To speak friendly, Even to the devil
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#8 User is offline   D'rek 

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Posted 18 January 2009 - 07:39 PM

He was having trouble sleeping. Again.

Images flashed through his semi-conscious mind of the hordes of people, all dressed in their finest suits and gowns, smiling beatifically towards him upon the elevated dais. Small, white birds thrown into the air, the sun shining through the frosted glass windows and hauntingly joyful music pouring from the score of organists along the wall. In his dreams, Lippmer would take in the scene and then slowly turn, knowing, dreading what he would see beside him on the dais. And there she would be, dressed in purest white, smiling up at him and oh so much in love.

It was around this point that Lippmer would awaken, screaming and drenched in sweat. He would then reach under the bed and grope about until his fingers found a bottle. Hours later, dawn would cast its judgemental beams of light upon an inebriated Lippmer spending another day on the floor.

This had been Lippmer’s routine for the last three years. After one year, he started paying a young woman from down the street to bring him meals. He could never remember her name, but found much hilarity in guessing it on the few occasions where she arrived whilst he was conscious. After two years, Lippmer threw out his bed and all the chairs, stools and benches he could find. He had recently noticed his own tendency to awaken on the floor and figured, in a sudden bout of less-than-sober clarity, that his furniture was the anchor for the ghost that haunted him. It wasn’t, of course, but that furniture was in the creek by then.


On the ninth day of the month of Moose, there was a break in Lippmer’s routine. As he reached around the floor for yet another bottle, his hands came into contact with a large piece of stone. Odd, I don’t have any stone furniture. Wait, I don’t have any furniture. Looking up, he saw a tablet larger than his torso leaning against the wall of his living room. The script was much too fine for Lippmer to discern, but the header at the top was legible enough. ‘Ultimate Deathmatch’ it read.

Lippmer didn’t drink another drop that morning. The inexplicable sense of importance emanating from the mysterious tablet removed any possible yearning for a drink. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself as he searched the house in vain for a bottle that wasn’t empty. As he reached the conclusion that his house was dry, he sat back down in front of the tablet and tried to focus his sight on the ring still wrapped around his third finger.

Catherine Varuk had been her name, and she had loved him more than anything in the world. For Lippmer, love had never even entered his head. From the first date, his enormous family had done nothing but pressure him into marrying the daughter of the richest alchemist on the continent. He’d seen, on that fateful day, the joy in their eyes as she slid that ring onto his finger. He still didn’t understand why they thought he would ever pass on a copper of his newfound wealth to any of them, but they were still crying tears of joy as the priest, High Alechmist Varuk himself, spoke “Until death shalt thou never part”. Lippmer wished Varuk had elaborated there and then just which one of the happy couple’s death he was referring to.

As the spinning of the room began slowing and Lippmer’s stomach began settling, the text on the tablet began taking a legible form. Lippmer gasped as comprehension came to him. A tournament of the most notable warriors from across the realms. Surely one of these warriors would have a sword, axe or dragon capable of breaking an enchanted ring. And all Lippmer had to do was fight them! Sobriety was still fleeting enough that surviving the battle was not something he felt he had to consider just yet.

As Lippmer finished reading the tablet, a familiar pounding in his skull began, increasing in volume until it shifted into a wailing voice. Sober for the first time in three years, Lippmer recognized the voice of his dead wife Catherine.

The nagging had begun once again.

View Postworrywort, on 14 September 2012 - 08:07 PM, said:

I kinda love it when D'rek unleashes her nerd wrath, as I knew she would here. Sorry innocent bystanders, but someone's gotta be the kindling.
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#9 User is offline   Grief 

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Posted 18 January 2009 - 09:37 PM

The black leather of the man’s clothing was silent as he glided along the alley, cloak still against his back. The small brown dog shrunk back as the man’s shadow fell across it’s bedraggled fur.
A sigh of irritation escaped the hood.

Late.

It was on purpose, he was sure. Another little thing to remind him that his brother was the favoured one, Lord of the Raven hold, the foremost champion of the world. The true son. While he was just the bastard, ignored as if he didn’t exist, except when something not suitable for the noble lords to do themselves came up.

A light appeared at the end of the alley, hovering above the hand of his brother. Drama.

The fool. He understands so little of the subtleties of magic, save for what he can use for his own purposes, such as blowing other fools to pieces.


A warm buzz filled me as my brothers light failed under the sudden absence of air around it, and I almost laughed at the frown on his face, as he struggled vainly to relight it.
Running a hand through his golden hair, Sir Tallken, strode forwards, armour, which he had made little effort to conceal, clinking.
Ambir waited, silent, for his brother to speak.

“I have obtained an invite to a tournament” he began “entrants gather from the universe. It is the greatest honour for anyone ever on this planet. Only the best, the truest of warriors can enter.” The contempt in his voice was obvious, as he waved a scroll in my face.

“Who’d you steal it from.” drawled Ambir. Baiting his half brother never failed to make his day better.

His mouth half open, Tallken bit back the words as they formed, and drew in a breath, calming himself down.
“I was given it. By a very strange man. Anyhow, that is of little importance. It is to take place in a great arena, the invite doesn’t say where”

“How’re you planning on getting there then?”
The sarcasm was so thick you couldn’t slice it with an axe. Unsurprisingly, Tallken was oblivious.

“The invite can take you there. Magic”
Tallken spat out the word. He had never been good at magic. He just didn’t have the imagination, which was surprising for someone who followed such concepts as honour and nobility so strictly, as if they could be touched, were truly real, which was to Ambirs mind, a remarkable feat of the imagination.

“Anyhow, I am not going”.
This truly did surprise Ambir. That his brother would pass up the chance to pit his strength against that of others, like bulls. The crest showing clearly on his chest, the boards, tusks locked, truly described his brothers character.

“But you are the best fighter on this planet”

This time his brother did pick up the sarcasm. Years ago, Sir Tallken had called Ambir out, on a jest about his intelligence. Practice swords were, of course, insisted upon. After all, bastard or not, it would not do to see a noble kill his brother.
It was one of his fondest memories, finally, the chance to hurt his brother.
I knew I was better. Stronger. Faster. From an early age, I had known, but we had always been kept apart.
It would not do, he was told, by his father of all people, to have a Noble son, of Noble heritage, to be beaten by someone like you.
The chance was taken. And paid for, in blood.

Worth it though.

“I am needed here” Tallken replied, curtly.

Of course. There are no powerful friends, in such tournaments. For the first time in years, he was truly shocked by his brother. A fool, yes, a brute, truly, yet...a coward?
He could not believe his brother would not take this opportunity. It angered him. To shame their world, that the best they have to offer, is nothing when faced with such a challenge.

“I need you to eliminate someone. A minor lord, Lars of the Eagle, who seeks to improve his standing, by calling me out, saying I am not needed so greatly, that I should fight. He seeks to make me look a coward”

And you are.


But Ambir held his silence. His mind, his pride was already racing.

His eyes felt hot. Tallken was glowering at them hatefully. He had always mocked his eyes. Not true eyes. Bastard eyes. Glowing, flickering, bastard eyes.

A loud buzzing was ringing in his ears.

No.

Not now.


The buzzing reduced. Slightly.

“I must kill him for calling you a coward? Why do you not simply go, and prove him wrong? What have you to fear?”

I saw his rage. He was at the boundary already, trying to hold back. A temper, something we had in common, perhaps, yet he had never learned to control, to focus his rage into a cold sharp point.

He snapped.

“Cowardice? Who are you to lecture me on cowardice, bastard!” He snapped.
“You crawl like a rat, in the sewers of this city. What do you know of my reasons? I do not need to explain myself to you, ungrateful wretch, watching me with your horrible bastard eyes. You know nothing”
He spat at me, stung by the truth in my voice.

The buzzing grew louder.

My eyes were burning.

He turned his back to me, shoulders quivering with rage, and started to walk.

His body was found later. It was identified only by his crest.
I had disappeared.
Along with an envelope, of which he had been so boastful to everyone.
If any connected the two, none spoke of it.

Another, less notable disappearance happened that day. Grieved solely by a small child who had lost her dog.

I took my first steps onto the new world, curled my fingers experimentally, and took a deep breath of extraordinarily clean air.
I left black footprints behind me, where the grass of the gardens withered and died beneath me.

Cougar said:

Grief, FFS will you do something with your sig, it's bloody awful


worry said:

Grief is right (until we abolish capitalism).
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#10 User is offline   temp 

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Posted 19 January 2009 - 08:05 PM

Luke Calderson blew dust off the hefty tome to reveal the cover. The book was clearly ancient, pages worn and yellowed, yet somehow it was preserved enough remain legible. That is, legible if he could read it...the truth was he couldn't understand a word of it -- it was in a language he'd never seen before. There were three more on the floor that he had already finished with, and another other pile waiting for his attention on the shelf across the room.
"Please have these ones scanned by the end of the day as well", she had said not an hour earlier when she had left for another one of her daily forray's into the woods outside the city.
He'd been an apprentice to Ariel for only a month or so. She had tasked him to scour these pages for a symbol that looked something like a scorpion entangled with a rose, and he'd been at it all morning.
Often he'd wonder about her strange outtings, and even more her odd behaviour at times, but the work, and the pay at the end of the week, was steady. So, he held such thoughts to himself and continued in his daily tasks without question, silently dreaming for the day when he might also attain the ranks of the Alchemist guild. Who knows, maybe even someday become a high alchemist himself..."dream big", his father used to always say.
For now, he would stick with his studies under her guidance. No doubt he would have to find his calling in another city, but simply having Ariel's name behind him within the guild would all but guarentee employment in the location of his choice.

The lab itself was dark and the windows were boarded over. The room was also in a great disarray...Ariel was not tidy; There where the books that Luke had been pouring though of course, but also there were empty flasks on the ground, various exotic plants in a small greenhouse in the corner, live reactions taking place in some experiment bubbling under a flame on a table, and even some type of aquarium populated by various insects and their amphibian masters.
A breeze quickly upset Luke's hair and extinguished the candle that he was using to illuminate his work. The door slammed behind Ariel as she briskly entered the lab, a look of triumph in her eyes. And oh, those eyes. Blue to match a tropical ocean paradise. Her brown hair, normally held back by pins and ties, fell down to her shoulders in a tangled mess. In most other women, this might look tired or run down...but with Ariel, the disorder somehow gave her a feral beauty. Her leather jerkin hung open a bit at the neckline, giving enough of a hint to provide Luke with some pleasant dreams afterward. Her tight riding pants were covered in grime, and she carried a wicked looking belt knife on her hip. The skin on her right arm was marred by several fresh cuts and scrapes, although she seemed oblivious.
In her hand she was holding some type of flower. It was yellow, thorns along the stem, and it gave off a pleasant aroma that he could detect even at this distance ten feet away.

A flyer had managed to blow into the room with Ariel's entrance as well. She glanced down at it on the floor, and then looked back to the flower in her hand; Her smile broadened.
"Hmmm," she said. "It's been a while, but I think I might try this again, just one last time."
Trying hard not to look like a smitten school boy, Luke averted his eyes as she walked past. Although he didn't catch her eyes, he was after all, a man, and still managed to steal a glance at her curvacious legs and hips as she glided past.
In doing so, he caught the title heading on the flyer lying there on the floor. "Ultimate Deatchmatch 4" was the text in large ornate lettering at the top of the pamphlet. A deathmatch? Ariel, high Alchemist to the king, in a deathmatch? That's something I'd like to see!

....and so begins the tale of Ariel: Alchemist, seductress, killer.
The price is wrong bitch!
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#11 User is offline   drinksinbars 

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Posted 20 January 2009 - 02:56 PM

Death Match intro:- Character MORGOTH!!!!

“We are closed,” he said before turning around. Without realising it, he slammed his glass for dramatic effect into the table. The small amount of whiskey left in the glass shot into the air, struggled vainly to reach escape velocity, and then tumbled wetly onto his laptop keyboard. “Fuck!” he exclaimed loudly in Norwegian.

“Excuse me?” asked someone behind him and his heart sank as he realised what day it was and who the voice belonged to.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed again, this time in English.

“Martin, stop saying fuck, I don’t care if you learn to say it in Spanish its still vulgar.”

“Yes, Sarah,” said Martin meekly, or at least it seemed meekly as it came out sort of sloshed. Mustering his courage he finally turned around, a strange half smile, half deranged look on his face that in his stupor he thought was a charming and winning grin of pearly white teeth and just the right shape or angle to endear forgiveness from even his long suffering girl friend.

She blanched, visibly.

“I didn’t realise it was today!” he said as an excuse. “I thought today, was yesterday! No, I mean tomorrow!” he said with a point of his finger toward the door when he recognised that his first attempt had missed that mark he imagined read ‘forgiven’.

“Strangely, Martin; today is today, and you were supposed to meet me at the airport over an hour ago!” her voice had reached a new pitch, a sign he knew all too well.

He gulped loudly.

“What are you doing anyway?” she asked. He tried to hide his empty whiskey glass, hoping she hadn’t noticed it. She pushed past him, a look of disgust on her face when she noticed the laptop which had been concealed from view by his billowing jumper. “You’re on that forum again,” she said with the kind of flat tone that precipitated a blazing row.

“Ah, I just stopped by for a second to pass the time.”

“You’re playing mafia again, aren’t you?”

“Was that a question?” he asked, one eyebrow cocked as he tried to slip past her.

“Fine, just fine, Martin. Every time that I ask you to do something and you are either engaged in a contest of wills with a whiskey bottle or trying to murder some stranger on a computer.”

“I tend to do those at the same time,” he said with a smile.

She hit him, a solid right cross that turned his head around and made his body follow, rather than slow himself he kept going until he was just about back where he started. “Oops?” he asked. She thrust something into his hands, a big thick brown binder with his name written on it.

“What’s this?” he asked soberly.

“You joined a gym,” she said flatly.

“I did?” he asked himself. “But I am too skinny to join a gym!” he called after her, as she retreated from the store with a set of her shoulders he knew meant trouble later. “If I lost anymore weight -” he called, before dropping his voice to a whisper when it became obvious she could no longer hear him, “- I will disappear.”

Martin staggered back to his laptop and set the binder down on the table before leafing through it. The title on the first page read “Ultimate Death Match Four Liability Waiver – Contestants copy.” He scanned down, shocked and dismayed to see his signature scribbled on the dotted line. Sweat broke out along his brow, and the whiskey was the only thing keeping him from being sick. He clutched the bottle to his chest like a protective blanket and kept hoping he would suddenly wake up from his nightmare.

He poured himself a double and slotted it home before he finished pouring. Just then the door chime rang again. He was about to shout that they were closed, but something in the eerie silence told him not to move, nor even to speak. A large meaty paw-like hand clamped down on one shoulder. He looked up into a broad flat face bereft of emotion, the eyes hidden behind mirror glasses so he was just staring into his own eyes.

“Morgoth?” the face said with a voice like cracking ice bergs.

Martin nodded very slowly, fear sending shivers from his head right down to the tips of his toes.

“Let’s go, sir, we have a car waiting to take you to the arena.”

“Can I bring my bottle?” he asked just before they lifted him up.

***

Morgoth stepped out of the shop, smiling at the odd looks he received from those walking by. He looked down, knowing Martin would complain about the blood drenching his hideous attempt at sartorial elegance. He thought about simply locking the bookstore door, but the flow of blood and the pieces of flesh slowly trickling down the inside of the windows was hard to miss and so he decided the shutters might be more appropriate.

Once that was done he walked over to the black limo waiting with an open door and stepped in. A smartly dressed young woman seated opposite him frowned at the blood pooling on the expensive leather.

“Problem?” she asked sardonically.

“They tried to touch my bottle of whiskey,” he said pleasantly. He reached up with one long delicate looking finger and thrust the immaculately manicured nail into his mouth, removing after some jostling a thin sliver of pink flesh. Satisfied his teeth where clean he reached for a tumbler held on the inside of the opposite door.

“Would you like a towel, Martin?” she asked without any emotion. He respected that steel in her; it would make his next meal all the more pleasurable.

“Do you have a cigar?” asked Morgoth, as he poured himself a drink.
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#12 User is offline   alt146 

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Posted 25 January 2009 - 09:07 PM

The one known as Chanfar scanned the surrounding jungle, sorting through his vast array of sensory inputs.
“Distance to target - 75m”, he noted to himself, imprinting his observations onto some of his unused genetic code. All forays out of the lair had to be meticulously recorded for later evaluation. His mission to capture a new animal to improve the gene-pool of their breeding stock was standard, but the protocols were in place for a reason.
“Based on terrain analysis, most effective energy to speed will be achieved by ambulatory pattern 32. Target weight estimated at 10.2kg. Setting venom levels to class 2A, in order invoke a 15 minute paralysis of the target.”
Suddenly his bioelectric sensors flared. “Shit”, he swore to himself, “Just my fucking luck”.
“Extra-terrestrial electronic activity detected entering atmosphere, signal indicates it is Human in nature. Estimated time to arrival – 15 minutes. Initiating Sentience Avoidance Protocol now.”
Chanfar felt his brain slow down as the protocol took effect. “What a pain” he thought, his higher order brain functions rapidly slipping away.


“Sir, are you sure we should be doing this?”
“Do we really have to go through this again Corporal?”
“I still think it isn’t a good idea Sir. You know what happened to the other test subjects. Now you want to inject that thing?”
“What happened to the other test subjects is exactly why I want to inject ‘that thing’ as you so eloquently put it.”
“With all respect Sir, I saw fifteen officers killed by a manatee. A fucking manatee. Now you want to administer the serum to a half-ton monster with enough claws, fangs and venom to make them outlawed on pretty much every planet in the commonwealth.”
“We’ve been over this already Corporal, any more from you and I’ll have you up for insubordination.”
“Sir, if anyone caught us here we’d be court-martialled in any case.”
“Shut up. As far as any of the species in the commonwealth can tell, these are quite probably the stupidest animals in the universe. A couple of million years ago they were obviously the dominant species on the planet. Then for some reason or another they retrovolved. Now they barely have enough brain activity to keep their hearts beating. It’s a miracle there’s even any of them left.”
“Still Sir…”
“You know as well as I the physical condition of the subject isn’t the issue, it’s the base intelligence. You been around since the beginning, so you remember the chimp right? Sure, the nanobots give a very impressive boost to physical performance, almost 300%. What we haven’t been able to figure out yet is were the corresponding increase in intelligence comes from and why it makes the subjects so incredibly aggressive. “
“Even more reason not to inject that monstrosity Sir.”
“Look, this is our last chance. The project’s been canned and this is the last of the serum we were able to manufacture. The team is in 100 percent agreement. The smartest this thing could possibly get is about the same level as Doberman. We can control that. We train it, then enter it into the competition. With the amount of publicity we’ll get, even if it doesn’t win, there’s no way they wont give us back our funding back. We sort out the bugs in the serum, make it suitable for use on sentients. Then retire with commendations as an army of our super soldiers takes the universe hostage. Or would you rather they shipped you out to the ass end of the galaxy to police some rocks? Now are you going to help me get this thing into the ship?”


Chanfar was vaguely aware of being moved into somewhere dark and different smelling. It got lighter and he blinked lazily. Things moved around him some, making noise. He farted. A sudden pain in his side made him flinch.
Suddenly it all came back. And so much more with it.
For millennia his species had hidden from the other sentient races. They had managed to achieve using their bodies what other species could only dream of with electronics and abstract mathematics. Despite their fearsome appearance and predatory ancestry, by the time the first sentient species had arrived on their planet, they had evolved into and incredibly peaceful and ordered society. Rather than wage the inevitable war against the jealous younger races, they had elected to hide themselves away – to the extent that they purposefully dampened their brain activity whenever they were being observed.
They had been fucking stupid. They had power, unbelievable power. Absolute rule over all known life was just a few steps away and they’d chosen to hide in their dark little holes instead.
“Well I’m about to change that.”


“Shit – did that thing just speak? In English? Tell me you heard that Sir. Better yet – tell me you didn’t . I think I’d rather be crazy.”
“I heard it. Place all power into the containment field, I’ll start the jettison procedure – looks like someone fucked up big time.”
“Sir, it’s jamming the containment field.”
“How the fuck is it doing that!”
“According to the instruments Sir, with its brain…”


Chanfar marvelled at the physics of blood in zero-gravity. He was amazed at the crude inefficiency of the anatomy exposed before him. He exulted in the play of his poisons on such fragile tissue. The chemistry of their fluids on his tongue was a subtle beauty he could never have comprehended before.
Eventually he grew bored experimenting on the two corpses and searched the ship for more prey to amuse himself with. As disappointed as he was that he couldn’t find any, there was one consolation. An entry form with the words ‘Ultimate Deathmatch’ written across the top in crude human script.
“How nice, they filled it in for me” he thought, as he adjusted the auto-pilot.
[url="http://www.alt146.zzl.org"]MafiaManager[/url]: My Mafia Modding tool - Now at v0.3b

With great power comes a great integral of energy over time.
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#13 User is offline   Jump Around 

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Posted 27 January 2009 - 03:19 PM

The tires wail in a sickening trail of black smoke. For a fleeting second, it seems as if the driver would manage to control the car, but a sudden impact from the back sends the vehicle sideways. A quick, silent lurch in the air, and the tumbling begins.

Roll after roll, impact after impact, the car disintegrates in a maelstrom of metal and plastic. As it hits the wall of the corner building, it explodes in two halves that slowly come to a rest in a noisy display of sparks.

The driver of the pursuing motorcycle slowly drives around the confused masses of steam and smoke. Satisfied, he shuts down his motor, and the road is silent once more.

As he disembarks, he throws a quick glance on the front of his chopper, and gives a satisfied nod. There has been a little scare around twenty blocks down when he violently hit that old woman on the sidewalk. Luckily, the front wheel guard is not dented, so no harm was done.

He approaches the mess, he hears a groan. A figure is slowly dragging itself out of the remainder of the front windshield. Fat, balding, his fifty-dollar suit soaked with blood, his empty stare does not seem to register the looming figure bending to grab his collar. With a jerk, he is thrown away from the wreck, yelping his surprise at the sudden movement. There is a ripping sound, and the biker, ignoring the sprawling figure, starts studying the remains of the shirt he is holding on to. With a satisfied smile, he extirpates a wrinkled twenty dollar bill.

He saw him, as the stripper came for a close dance, swiftly snatch the bill hanging from her string and pocket it. The movement was quick, and the poor woman never realized that she had just been robbed, but he saw it. He saw it, and took care of it. It’s a question of honor. Nobody steals from a stripper.

He looks around. He sees with satisfaction a bar on the next corner.

That chase made him thirsty, and he had twenty bucks to spare.

----

The light is flickering as he’s sprinkling his boots. A few more drops, and the precious is tucked back in. Even though he didn’t manage to put much inside the actual toilet, he extends his foot and flushes it.

Aaaaaah. Much Better.”

The outburst of his deep voice (and the strangeness of the comment) has silenced the two in the corner, next to the broken mirror and moldy sink. They’ve been babbling the whole time about some combat invitation. He sees them for the first time, and they could be best described as a small shaved monkey and a gigantic hairy pig.

He approaches the big one, who is showing the other a piece of paper.
What’s that?”, he asks, pointing at it.

The giant just stares at him dumbly, with a hint of annoyed stubbornness. It’s the little one that answers.

“What’s this? What’s this?? That’s only an invitation for the biggest God-damn combat-fest in the God-damn Universe.”

And he continues in a confused description, accompanied with vivid gestures. He’s obviously very proud of his big friend. The words “Ninja”, “leprechaun”, “spider-boy”, and “Emilio Estevez” seem to make appearances, but he’s not really paying attention. His gaze remains on the yellow letter.

Give it to me”.

This, once again, shuts up Shorty. A smile creeps on the messy features of the Beast. Pulling his shoulders back, his hands close into fists, crumbling the invitation. Now we’re getting into his territory.

“And who da hell do ye thinks ye are?”

There is a quick movement, and a thunderous blast. Where the goon’s face was a fraction of a second before, a squirting neck stump sprays with blood a wall splattered with what a skilled surgeon could possibly reconstitute into an approximation of a very surprised expression.

The short one, in an impressive display of survival instincts, is already out the door and running for his life. The explosion of the blast has ignited the shoulder of the dead man’s shirt. He approaches the flame to light the old cigar he’s been chewing on for a few hours.

And, as the twitching body collapses on the ground, he snatches the invitation from this clenched fist, and answers him.

I’m Duke Nukem!

This post has been edited by Jump Around: 27 January 2009 - 03:21 PM

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#14 User is offline   Mentalist 

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Posted 02 February 2009 - 05:40 AM

“They say that in the autumn of our years we tend to worry less about what happens to us, and more about what legacy we will leave to those who remain”, droned the cassette player in the corner of the bar in a thick baritone.

Oleh Bury, who had over the last 24 hour once AGAIN (“for what, 17th time now?” he wondered) become the most wanted man in the Union most certainly did not share that sentiment.

Sitting in a basement coffeehouse on Shevchenko boulevard that had miraculously survived yesterday’s fierce fighting retreat of the 12 Tank corps (or, rather, what was left of it,) intending to disappear, along with the rest of the forces still loyal to the Anti-Globalist cause in the satellite-proof Carpathians, and, hopefully, further into the Balkans, from there to begin the counterattack.

“Pasha will handle it well”, mused Oleh, “he won’t repeat my mistakes”. From here, his thought switched to his own immediate future. “Sector West is lost, at least for now. The Don line will hold, but I’m in way too deep, and evacuation’s almost over. I won’t get out. Every damn mage they have will attuned to me by now. Forest’s the only option. To go under (again—just like way back then) and wait”.

His mind made up, he turned back to the Nemiroff bottle in front of him. Pouring himself a shot, he tasted the honey and it took him back. “Her perfume smelled of honey. Of honey and violets”. Once again, his mind turned back to that fateful night, the chaos, the panic, and the reflection of the burning Grad in the dark waters of Vltava…

He closed his, eyes, the glass clutched firmly in his fist. He counted to ten, before opening his eyes. He emptied the glass, feeling the warmth course through him. “No more memories”, he said out loud. “No more. It’s time to think on how to reach the forest”

But he couldn’t escape them. Memories were everywhere; he knew it with painful clarity. Twenty-five years of nearly endless struggles-in that time he has seen it all.
The door opened, letting someone else in. Caught in the trance, Oleh barely acknowledged the newcomer—his eyes were glued to the building he saw when the stranger opened the door. “Anastasia’s” was a casino-turned-whorehouse, bilt in the Third Occupation. It was there that one dark night, he and his team ambushed and killed over three quarters of the Occupation Forces’ officer corps.

“That was so long ago, in simpler times, before there was a Union, before the arrival of the Chukavy, before the death-fleets, before I rammed the Union’s flagship in an experimental shield-fighter, before the facility, before the ... exposure…”

Pan Bury?
Oleh’s hand instinctively went to his gun. “Who wants to know?”

“I come bearing you no malice. On the contrary, I have a proposition to make”

“You should know I’m not the most reliable man, then. What is it you want?”

“We would like to offer you a way out of the predicament you are about to find yourself in”

“And what might that be?”

“A column of Union commandos is on its way here. They have a division of first class mages who locked onto you, and their orders are “shoot to kill”. You have been compromised, and your chances to get out of the city are less then 0”

“No. Maniac would never set me up”

“Ivan Solomichev is a businessman. And when we assured him that we could guarantee your safety, he was most forthcoming with your location in an attempt to please the new Occupant-Governor.

“Well then,” Oleh considered his choices carefully, “What do you want?”

“A contest is being held. We want you to represent us in it.”

“What kind of contest?”

“It is the Ultimate Deathmatch. Only the finest from among the worlds may enter”.

“Forget it. I am will not fight for entertainment. I am needed here. I-“

“You what, Pan Bury? You will go in the forest and wage guerrilla war until the Alliance regroups? You will hide in the dirt and wait?”

“I-“

“Please, let us be reasonable, Pan Bury. You are no longer young. Although that”—he pointed at the enchanted crucifix that was the prison of the demon Bagryanakrov (“How did he know?”), may keep your body young, you still age. You have built up a fine legacy in your life—the Alliance will go on without you, for you have raised fine leaders to follow your footsteps. Truly, the best thing to do now is disappear. We can provide that, for a time.

Oleh gave the stranger a cold stare. “Could he be right? Am I really just reluctant to leave the spotlight? Pasha, Marta, Tarasik—all of them are capable leaders. Am I really just hindering them by staying here, by remaining the centre of attention, the symbol, the would-be messiah? Can I really not just….retire?”

The stranger matched his stare with a calm look. Silence was broken by the metallic screech

“ATTENTION, OLEH BURY! WE HAVE YOU COMPLETELY SURROUNDED. SURRENDER NOW! OUR MAGES HAVE YOU LOCKED. YOU WILL NOT GET OUT ALIVE”

Oleh checked both of his pistols and his knife as he got up from his seat. “Well, I’m in. How do you expect to get us out of here?”

The stranger rose, and a portal opened behind him. “This way please”

“A planer? You must be good. The Guild has not yet charted the sub-space in this sector”

“I’m afraid my skills are beyond the comprehension of your current dimension science. Now, please, go!”

“Yes, yes. Coming”

Oleh turned to the nearly deaf barkeep, threw him a stack of Occupation dollars, grabbed the unfinished bottle and stuffed it into his jacket “I guess the old bastard was right after all.”

And with that thought Oleh Bury, the legendary partisan, founder of the Anti-Globalist movement and the Union’s worst nightmare, stepped through into the portal.
-

This post has been edited by Mentalist: 03 February 2009 - 04:31 AM

The problem with the gene pool is that there's no lifeguard
THE CONTESTtm WINNER--чемпіон самоконтролю

View PostJump Around, on 23 October 2011 - 11:04 AM, said:

And I want to state that Ment has out-weaseled me by far in this game.
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#15 User is offline   Illuyankas 

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Posted 09 February 2009 - 11:03 AM

Jenkins was beginning to have doubts about the dive.

He stared out the view-bubble in the bathysphere as Cap and Holt continued arguing, the unbroken black scant relief from either the lights and buttons lining the walls or his comrade’s faces. Checking several readouts, he turned to Cap and said, “We’re nearing target depth, Captain. If Holt’s data is correct, our objective is approximately five minutes away.”

“Thank you, Jenkins,” Cap replied, then turned his bulldog-like face to the third man in the bathysphere. “Now, I want to know exactly what you came to find.” Holt wasn’t like any researcher Jenkins had ever seen. The man was tall, heavily muscled and seemed more a soldier than anything. The scarred features and grim expression didn’t look very scientisty either. He guessed Holt was some ex-agency operative, but it didn’t explain why they were currently several thousand feet below the Atlantic’s surface. Even his rustle through his kit only revealed a locked suitcase labelled UD before Holt returned.

The large man straightened, and said, “I can’t tell you everything, but I suppose I can tell you this much – the signals I hired you to investigate might be a new source of energy that could potentially supplant every other. You could become insanely rich by solving the energy crisis and saving the environment. Or it’s an anomaly that’s wasted your time and my money, but let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves,” Holt finished, grinning irritatingly. Cap started another tirade which Jenkins ignored by turning back to the view-bubble and resuming his blank staring, only to be interrupted by something unexpected.

“Captain, we’re still minutes away and I can see a glow.”
“What? A plankton mass swept down on a current, Jenkins?”
“It’s red, stable, and we’re getting clos-“
“Let me see that!” Holt stuck his head over the crewman’s shoulder, while Cap did the same with the other, crushing Jenkins in his seat. The light grew in size and intensity as time passed, suddenly becoming into focus to the sound of three inward breaths. The bathysphere had crossed into a massive crater, bathed in a lurid red light emanating from a huge spiralling object in the centre. As they grew closer, the spiral structure became clearer, appearing to be a vast rock covered in small moving objects and dotted with red crystal and grey stone.

“That’s it, that’s the Crystal Spear from the Red Book!” Holt recovered first, and exclaimed, “We need to get a sample of crystal, it’s our top priority. Head over to the spiral as soon -“

Jenkins stayed at his post by the bubble, the sounds of yet more arguing washing over him completely unnoticed. The spiral was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and it was difficult to take his eyes off it. He almost didn’t see the structures coating the crater floor, but couldn’t ignore them once he saw them, and the roads, and the lines of swimming objects… He looked around at the sound of a punch to see Holt fall against the side of the hull, as Cap furiously shouted, “What did you do to the controls!? We can’t stop!”
“I did nothing, Captain. Once we have a shard of crystal in the manipulators, we can use it to take back control and get out of here. How long until we reach the Spear, Jenki- what’s wrong?”

Both Holt and Cap had stopped to look at him, shock on their faces. He was still utterly stunned, but managed to stammer out, “T-T-There’s a city! Outside, in the crater!”
Neither replied, and Jenkins took a moment to notice they were looking behind him. He turned and saw the impossible. A bright neon coloured crustacean, about half a foot long, was floating by the view-bubble. It had several pairs of antlers and two pincer-like arms, one distinctly thicker than the other. It kept pace easily with the bathysphere as they stared. Cap faintly said, “That can’t be right. It’s a mantis shrimp, they don’t even live outside tropical waters, let alone this deep. I have to be imagining things.” Any reply was silenced by the mantis shrimp blurring briefly as it attacked the bubble with its claw, faster than the eye could see and causing a brief flash of light and a painful bang, then struck again. And again. The fourth hit cracked the outside of the glass. Cap began weeping, as the mantis shrimp swam away and a massive, metallic claw swung into view. Holt screamed, “I WAS SO CLOSE! FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF” while Jenkins simply stared, determined to see as much as possible before the end. The steel pincer broke through the bubble into the bathysphere before Jenkins could register its movement, and all three were pulped instantly from the crushing pressures.

The bathysphere’s shell was held steady by the pincer as the mantis shrimp collective began the salvage. Everything was discarded until Holt’s case, still intact, was retrieved. The mantis shrimp that cracked the glass registered the letters UD, chittered orders, and swam off with the case. The bathysphere was flung away into the depths. Peace reigned once more.

-------------------

The beach was deserted. None were present to see the car-sized robotic mantis shrimp wade out of the sea. Once on land it began to transform, fluidly moving from one configuration to another in preparation. Once finished, the nine-foot human-shaped robot began walking, red light leaking from every crevice, massive halberd in one hand and oversized antlers bouncing with each step.

Lord Pilot K’t’Za wriggled contentedly in his cockpit. Finally, their conquest was underway. Engineer Duke A’To signalled full power from their crystal engines while Warmaker Baron J’Gi gave their weapons the all clear. He and his fine mantis shrimp crew were ready. It was time to take the surface world for their underwater empire, starting with this Ultimate Deathmatch.

“Onwards! For the glory of the Shrimperium of Mantis!”
The three voices of the landship Mansplitter’s crew echoed as one;
“FOR THE SHRIMPEROR!”
Hello, soldiers, look at your mage, now back to me, now back at your mage, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped being an unascended mortal and switched to Sole Spice, he could smell like he’s me. Look down, back up, where are you? You’re in a warren with the High Mage your cadre mage could smell like. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s an acorn with two gates to that realm you love. Look again, the acorn is now otataral. Anything is possible when your mage smells like Sole Spice and not a Bole brother. I’m on a quorl.
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#16 User is offline   Cause 

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Posted 09 February 2009 - 06:00 PM

4th of Sivan, 1456
Xoa theatre
Forward operations
Captain Gershon
118th Pennant, 3rd Division
8th Army group

Dearest Wife

I received your care package, thank you; I gather from your letters that this is not the first you have sent me. It is unfortunately the first I have received. So please don’t think ill of me for not thanking you before. It is terrible that with times the way they are that the mail service has become so unreliable. I wish I could say that it is due solely to the action of the enemy but I fear many a soldier who now serves the motherland is less an honourable man than the motherland would hope. The Truth is with conditions so bad I’m not sure I can judge a man for stealing a jar of honey or a can of biscuits.

I can’t tell you how good it feels to have the time to write this letter. These last few days way heavy on my mind. I am to receive the Distinguished Service Cross for my role in the latest action. No don’t praise me! I fear that this medal will be nothing more than a reminder of a time I wish to forget. I served the motherland faithfully but I have failed my convictions and my command.

Three days past an offensive was ordered against the enemies’ line directly opposite where I myself was stationed. My pennant was to lead the advance just behind a creeping barrage from the artillery, to provide us with some cover. We in turn it was hoped could draw and survive the enemy’s fire whilst covering the regular troops who would follow after us. I look back with confusion at the confidence both I and my men felt in anticipation of the attack. We were so certain our new armour would protect us. You cannot imagine the security you feel when inside it. I tell you that you, who have not seen it, cannot appreciate it. Several hundredweight of overlapping plate, lamella and chain armour worn over a vest of some new fibre which can even stop, on its mind, a bullet fired from rifle above fifty lengths. I did not believe it possible, so I and the men tested them ourselves. Just another example of what I have now come to see as the vile technology which I fear has made this war unwinnable for either side.

You need the help of three men just to put it on. You have to start with the legs and build your way up. If not for the magic woven into the armour no normal man could bear the weight. Wearing it I become a giant a man with a huge barrel chest and need fear no harm.

At first it seemed we were right, crossing no-man’s land we felt invincible. The bullets the enemy fired bounced right of the armour. Artillery bursts, unless at our very feet, simply seemed to throw up a suffocating cloud of earth but even their fury was no match for the armour. Walking through the affects of whizz bangs, pip squeaks and clappers unfazed I felt, Azroth forgive me, like a god.

We were armed with blasting pikes, harpoon launchers, halberds, flame throwers, grenades and some few even had shields. When we were just a field away from the enemies’ line we began to fill their trenches with our grenades. We had taken only minor casualties at this point and I admit for a brief moment a sense of euphoria overtook me. Excitement at my own power and more so because I had begun to hope that we had finally found a way to end the stalemate. It’s been three years since our enemy dug into their positions and three years since a breach of any significance has been achieved. Yet here we were at the cusp of their lines and were for the most part unharmed.

It was during this moment that a white cloud appeared above their trench and began to spread out towards us. The men feared sorcery; it’s a constant source of gossip amongst all the enlisted men about what spells their battle casters might be working on. I have even heard talk of a spell with the power to destroy entire cities that its use will end the war, what utter nonsense. In any event, I wish now that it had been sorcery. No doubt it would have taken its toll on us but our armour also possessed limited enchantment to contest sorcery. Alas it offers no such protection against poison gas; I cannot describe in words my contempt for whichever man, if indeed he can be called such, who would consider the use of such a device in war. Now of course our own side will need to retaliate in kind and I fear the horrors of this war will only be as endless as the war itself is seemingly becoming.

I myself and a few of my men were only spared the gasses touch due to some vagary of the wind. I tell you and only you my dearest wife that the ferocity with which we fell on the men in those trenches shames me. No quarter, no mercy, not for them. I knew when I volunteered that war changes a man, any man. I did not expect the man it would change me into to frighten even myself.

Would only that we were together, for even one more moment. Your presence I feel would calm me, perhaps save me. I am to be reassigned, my command dissolved, to fight in the ultimate death match. High command feels a victory by me would raise moral. I wonder what they think my death might bring them.

I must go now

Your loving Husband

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well their it is. Usually like to hae someone read it before I post, but alas. Always wanted to write a sort of WW1 Fantasy

This post has been edited by Cause: 09 February 2009 - 06:01 PM

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#17 User is offline   Sir Thursday 

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Posted 09 February 2009 - 08:09 PM

It was a dry, dusty day - that’s kind of important. Otherwise we might have seen it coming. Sam and I were taking a break from being fake patrons in the bar at Rodeo Ranch Theme Park (gets a bit mind-numbing after a while – there’s only so many times you can tell the same clichéd tripe to inexplicably interested tourists before you start to despair). Anyhow, it was a slow day, pretty deserted, so we were sitting outside enjoying some sun and watching the tumbleweeds. All of a sudden this mini-tornado whips up out of nowhere. It came straight at us – no time to think, no time to run. Barrelled straight into Sam, and the dust seemed to just go straight through her – didn’t slow at all. In an instant, she was gone, just like that!

I stood there, stunned – I’d told tales of crazy stuff like this before, you know, but never actually witnessed any of it. I was pretty shocked, too – Sam and I weren’t exactly close, but I’d worked with her for a couple of months at that point, and she was gone…or was she? The dust swirled, and suddenly there she was in front of me as if nothing had happened. That is, until she opened her mouth.

“Ahhhhhhh….”

I asked her if she was alright. Took a while, but eventually I got an answer:

“At last, a form we can sustain. So long we have drifted – shapeless, powerless, dying a slow death. But now we are REBORN!”

So by now I was thoroughly weirded out…but as I attempted a stealthy retreat, she (they?) moved faster than I thought possible, and grabbed my arm. I tried to wriggle free but damn, they were strong too.

“We need you!” It hissed. “She will only sustain us for so long, and then we shall need another form to take! You look stronger, you will give us more when the time is right. When we need it most, we shall embrace you into ourselves…”

Well, that didn’t sound like a particularly nice fate, so I figured I should probably try and get away as soon as I could. But let me tell you, it’s not easy to do when that thing has a death grip on your arm. No luck there, so I figured I’d try a different tack. “Why don’t you come into the bar and quench your thirst? Bet you haven’t had alcohol in a while.”

The Sam thing stared at me for a long time, before eventually moving towards the bar’s entrance. It got the door, but instead of pushing it open, it just collapsed into dust and slithered underneath. I figured running away would be pretty useless at this point – I needed something to make it think I wasn’t worth the effort. So, I pushed my way through the door. Sam had reassembled on the other side. I tried to act casual: “You know, you could just have come in like a normal person.” Apparently, the last place it had been didn’t have doors. “This information is most useful to us. We do not like to have to leave our form, for then we shall have less time before it fades from our memories and we return to the chaos from whence we came.” Make of that what you will.

The place was deserted, so fortunately no-one had seen the thing’s entrance. Went up to the bar and rang the bell (there’s normally a guy making a show of cleaning the glasses – got to keep up appearances – but obviously with no-one in today he didn’t feel it was worth the effort). As we were waiting for the barman to come out, I had a look at the stuff pinned to the advertisement board by the bar. The usual rubbish – people trying to sell frontier souvenirs, for the most part. But there was one piece of paper that caught my eye. It was really flowery script, but I could just about make out that it was an invitation to something called the Ultimate Deathmatch. Slowly, a plan was forming in the back of my mind.

So I asked it: “Say, didn’t you say something about wanting strong forms to take or something?”

Sam was surprisingly willing to talk about what it was – some kind of collection of tiny machines that needed to mimic other sentient beings to survive. Anyway, I slyly pointed out the invitation pinned to the board – “reckon there’d be some strong forms there for you to take,” I said. Sam shifted pretty quickly to the board and studied the invitation for a moment.

“You believe this tournament will attract many strong beings?” It asked. I pointed to the line on the invite that said: EXPECT A STRONG FIELD! I was praying that it would just take the hint and leave me alone. Eventually it reached its decision:

“We shall attend this Ultimate Deathmatch. But in case you are lying, we shall take you with us, to give us sustenance should this supposed feast in fact be a famine.” My heart sank. Sam ripped the invite off the board, there was a flash of light and then everything changed.

We were in a big room filled with flashing lights. Looked like something out of one of those science fiction films. There was a big guy standing in front of us in a pretty nice suit and shades, who welcomed us to the tournament and gave us instructions about where we were going to be staying while we waited for the other challengers to arrive. It seemed I was in pretty big trouble now!

So that was how I arrived at the Ultimate Deathmatch. I think that’s enough for today, I’ll tell the rest some other time. What’s that you say? You want to know how Samantha Sandstorm got on? Well you’ll just have to wait until next time.
Don't look now, but I think there's something weird attached to the bottom of my posts.
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#18 User is offline   Illuyankas 

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Posted 15 February 2009 - 04:30 PM

Illy versus Mez, Round 1 Post 1






The crew of the Mansplitter were having a whale of a time. Having only made brief stops at a sushi restaurant to point and laugh at the cuisine; a Blockbuster to destroy all copies of The Little Mermaid Twilight and Finding Nemo; and a library for information regarding Clive Cussler’s current whereabouts, they were making good time, so Lord Pilot K’t’Za authorised a visit to what was commonly known in the Shrimperium of Mantis’ land-knowledge as a ‘pub’. The nine foot tall robot sat at the bar on a slowly-compressing stool, staring at the pint in front of it and surrounded by a very wary crowd of onlookers.

“Well, you ordered it sir, now what?”
“…seaweed’s always greener…”
“You know our secondary mission is to find out all the information as we can about the humans, A’To. Clearly they must eat liquids in return for breathing air, and we’ve never found out why these establishments are so popular.”
“…that is a big mistake…”
“I meant what do we do with it? The Mansplitter can’t sample this stuff. Whatever the depths it is.”
“…unda de sea, unda de sea…”
“Good point. SERVER! What is this liquid you have obtained?”
“…down where it’s wetter…”
“Er, it’s called Fosters, er, Lord Pilot Katza of the Glorious Shrimperium of Mantis, sir. It’s a lager. Also could you please remove your halberd from my foot please I’ve lost a lot of blood please sir please?”
“…cause dey in dey bowl…”
“No. And it’s K’t’Za. A’To, check the approved list of lagers from the Internet we discovered.”
“…unda de sea, unda de sea…”
“Of course, sir. Ah! Sir! It’s on the Forbidden list!”
“…in fricassee!…”
“What!? SERVER!”
“…life is de bubbles, unda de sea…”
“Ohgod ohgod I’mdizzy ohgod what is it Load Pilate Katrina-“
“This beer has been criticised on your Internet! And you serve it in pubs? You disgust me. We shall be leaving now. AND FOR THE LOVE OF THE SHRIMPEROR, J’GI, WILL YOU STOP SINGING THAT DAMN SONG!”
“…sorry, sir.”

Plucking their halberd from the bar top to the sounds of a trickle and a collapsing bartender, the Mansplitter turned to go and halted in front of two sloshed drunkards, who had approached and seemed to be egging each other on. “Hey, mate,” one asked before being interrupted by K’t’Za.

“What, airsucker?”
“Oi, no need for that sort of language. I was just asking if you could give us a light?”
“A light? A’To? J’Gi? Any idea what he means?”
“No idea, sir.”
“Perhaps he means could you make him lighter?”
“Good idea, J’Gi,” replied K’t’Za, and pulled off the man’s arm. “Is that sufficient loss of mass? Or would you like- where are you going?” he asked the back of the screaming, running man gushing blood across the bar as he fled in terror, along with most of the onlookers.

“How rude. And you?” The currently-dying-of-blood-loss-drunk’s white-faced friend turned to the Mansplitter and stammered, “Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh no, giving a light means setting fire to the end of this here pleasedontkillmepleasedontkillme
“We probably won’t until our full invasion, you may desist urinating. So, that white tube thing? Very well. J’Gi, fire up the EYE LASERS and ignite the white tube thing, would you?”
“Thank you, sir!”

The crimson light shining out of every crack in the Mansplitter’s hull flared as two red beams shot from the eyes and exactly lit the cigarette’s tip. The drunk boggled, spluttered thanks, then quickly legged it.

“Hmm. Technically perfect, but somewhat disappointing.”
“I don’t understand, sir, I set it to maximum power.”
“Odd. Try again.”

The dazzling beam swept across the dilapidated-crowd and bisected them, each half igniting to the sound of a synchronised cut-off shriek. Behind them, part of the now-burning wall collapsed to the sound of screams and sirens.

“Better. And quite entertaining. J’Gi?”
“Problem, sir, that was full power but the controls were set to two-sevenths. The actual EYE LASER strength appears to randomise each time.”
“Found the problem, sir, there’s a blockage I can’t quite reach in the core power coupling. Looks like we’re waiting until it gets knocked loose or decomposes.”
“…decomposes, A’To? What would be in there to decompose?”
“Er.”
“A’To…”
“Well, sir, remember that sushi restaurant? Well, I was kind of peckish-”
“I don’t want to hear it. Alright, we need to move.”
“Yes sir.”
“Yes, sir.”

The Mansplitter wheeled and crashed through the last standing wall, next to the hole it made entering the destroyed bar. It set off down the road, making mechanical whines and crunches while faint lyrics emanating from the speakers.

…hot crustacean band… damn it, J’Gi, now I’m doing it! Both of you will be in shit deeps when we get back! GRAHGAFVGYUVGDFHGDF-”


------------------------


The teleport ended, and the Mansplitter was deposited in an arena.

“-LJVGNGHIHNJOHASBGNJ- oh, we’re here. I wish they’d warned us about the teleporter beforehand. Is that our opponent?”

The nearby urchin with the glowing sword gaped at them, then spoke in a stereotypical rural accent.

“What manner of knight are you, that interrupts my quest for my true love?”
“Knight? We are the proud landship Mansplitter, here to conquer all we see for the honour of the Shrimperium of Mantis and our glorious Shrimperor.”
“Villain! I shall defeat you for the woman I love!”
“How significant-pause interesting. What’s her name?”
“It’s- hang on…”
“Let’s just kill him, sir.”
“My thoughts exactly.”

The Mansplitter stepped forward and took one massive swing of its halberd, looking to end this in a single blow. The sword in the hand of the dullard wrenched itself around and effortlessly deflected the halberd’s many-bladed end upwards, while the farmboy recoiled, unhurt but as surprised as both the Mansplitter’s crew and the crowd.

“Sir! According to all mantis shrimp science, that couldn’t have been physically possible!”
“A’To, mantis shrimp science took thirteen generations to work out that humans counted in base 10. It’s a trick, and we’ll work it out. Now, let us kill this skinbag!”

This post has been edited by Illuyankas: 18 February 2009 - 01:53 PM

Hello, soldiers, look at your mage, now back to me, now back at your mage, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped being an unascended mortal and switched to Sole Spice, he could smell like he’s me. Look down, back up, where are you? You’re in a warren with the High Mage your cadre mage could smell like. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s an acorn with two gates to that realm you love. Look again, the acorn is now otataral. Anything is possible when your mage smells like Sole Spice and not a Bole brother. I’m on a quorl.
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#19 User is offline   Mezla PigDog 

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Posted 15 February 2009 - 04:31 PM

Illy vs Mezla Round 1 Post 1

-----------------------------------------------------


The door swung open and the woman who had persuaded Fantassy Kleesh'ay to come here entered the room.

"Almost time for your match, boy. I have registered your magical sword with the bookies, the next hour should be interesting!"

One of her male companions arrived carrying the parchments he had been obsessively studying since the old mans cabin. He looked agitated.

"I told you something didn't look right with the Boys records" he blurted. Taking hold of the woman's elbow he drew her outside the door. Fantassy could hear few words of their hurried conversation above the noise from the crowd in the arena.

"…old man… rogue operative…Bureau of Progressive Fantasy…"

Shrugging, Fantassy drew his new sword and tried a lunge. His friends re-appeared at the door. Seeing the sword in his hand, the man looked sick. The woman approached slowly, eyeing him suspiciously. She leaned closer and prodded the boys arm, "He seems like a typical Farm Boy to me; gullible, low intellect, pert behind. What do the old mans records show of the Bureau's intentions?"

"Err…lets see……." The man fumbled with the parchments, dropping most of them on the floor, "Motor skills look suitably enhanced, he should become a good fighter. Healing looks good, he shouldn't stay down long if he takes an injury."

"Standard Farm Boy clone stuff," said the woman, "we make them that way. What did the old man change?"

"Erm, it's hard to tell, but his Magical Weapon Dampening system looks screwed. He could completely lose control of that sword you gave him."

"Shit," cursed the woman, "The Farm Boy is the only creature in the world that can wield these magical weapons, their vacuous minds dampen the World Destroying powers before they can be unleashed. The Bureau of Progressive Fantasy don't understand what they are messing with! They seek originality and innovation but this is going to be carnage!"


Her companion whined, "The Deathmatch Implementation Board will never let us pull out now. The boss is going to be livid, we'll be busted down to shoveling unicorn shit on his Magical Beast breeding farm."

"The boss doesn't necessarily have to know. Our orders are to remove any innovative characters from the genre, the boy may still manage that without destroying the world," she replied brusquely. "We will just have to see what happens." Giving Fantassy and his sword a last horrified look, she backed out of the door.


Alone in the room, Fantassy sheathed his sword and gathered up the parchment that was still on the floor. The exchange had left him confused. Sitting at the table, he looked for something he could understand. The title read "Farm-Boy-U-Like Ltd Clone Instruction Manual". The opening paragraph caught his eye:

The following passages contain guidelines on how to ensure our Farm Boy clones mature in the appropriate ways and are not unduly affected by outside developmental influences. Following this protocol should ensure that the clone is ready for deployment at the discretion of the Chairman of the Fantasy World Domination Committee. Our aim is to create a moribund collection of youths, devoid of personality and suitably susceptible to manipulation by our operatives in order to affect a predictable influence over World Ending Events.

Signed by Chairman D. Eddings, on behalf of the Fantasy World Domination Committee


A guard of the Deathmatch Implementation Board appeared at the door.
"You're first up, kid. Move it"

Fantassy looked up, slack jawed and confused as he was hoisted from his chair. The noise from the arena crowd grew louder as he was propelled down the narrow corridor. Sunlight flooded into the dusty shade of the holding cells, blinding Fantassy as he was thrust into the sawdust of the arena. A gate slammed loudly behind him.

As Fantassy's eyes adjusted, he caught a first glimpse of his opponent: a giant humanoid machine that spewed eerie crimson light. It brandished a barbaric many-bladed weapon as it strode towards him. Fantassy wanted to run but knew the gates were locked securely behind him, he drew his sword and the crowd whooped and jeered, he had never seen so many people. The sword hilt thrummed quietly in his hand, sending vibrations up his arm. He suddenly feared he might faint, the world before his eyes swam sickeningly as his monstrous opponent lurched closer. Through the daze, Fantassy imagined he could hear strains of Calypso music, he felt consciousness attempting to flee. The machine towered above him and they exchanged words that barely registered through Fantassy's terror. Finally he saw his death descending in a massive swing of the halberd, he closed his eyes. The clash of steel on steel made his ears ring and even his teeth shook in their sockets. The sword had a life of its own and had deflected the blow! Bemused, Fantassy's body could only follow as the sword aimed for gaps in the machines armour in a bewildering series of thrusts and slashes. The horrific contraption parried them all, the crimson light from within the shell intensifying in answer to the strengthening glow of the magical blade. Fantassy felt the hilt getting hotter, a tingling sensation spread up his sword arm and into his whole body. Previously unknown vigour came to his limbs and slowly his body caught up with the wild swinging of the blade.

"HA, take that vile fiend!" he cried as his opponent failed to block a vicious cut to its side. The blade clashed into the armoured shell with a screech of grinding metal. An explosion of blinding light burst forth from the magical sword, throwing both opponents to the ground.

Lying on his back, temporarily blinded Fantassy strained to hear if the robot was moving.

……..The fish on the land ain't happy, they sad 'cause they in their bowl……..

This post has been edited by Mezla PigDog: 19 February 2009 - 07:29 PM

Burn rubber =/= warp speed
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#20 User is offline   Illuyankas 

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Posted 15 February 2009 - 04:39 PM

Illy (Count Rugen) versus Mez, Round 1 Post 2 (or 3)





Inside the cockpit of the Mansplitter, K’t’Za was going insane.

“J’GI I AM GOING TO SEVER YOUR [untranslatable] AND [untranslatable] YOUR CARAPACE INTO YOUR PET DOGFISH IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP AND STOP SINGING RIGHT DAMN NOW!”
“It’s just so catchy, sir!”
“IT’S HARD ENOUGH TO MANIPULATE THIS USELESS LIMB-DEPRIVED FORM AS IT IS WITHOUT THE DISTRACTION! SING AGAIN AND I’LL [untranslatable] YOUR MOTHER!”
“Yes sir!”
“A’TO- er, A’to, what the damage report?”
“Severe damage to the right outer torso armour, some damage to core shielding backups - they can’t be trusted to support any form changes, so unless we want to explode in minutes we’re stuck in human mode.”
“I suppose that’s not too bad.”
“And the minibar’s totally destroyed.”
“I’LL RIP OUT ITS AIRBREATHING ORGANS!”

The Mansplitter sprung up, halberd in hand, and while the shabby oik scrambled to his feet the landship charged, distortion from the speakers skewing the warcry into electronic shrieks with every step. The sword swept up into the ready position, the farmboy following suit a moment later while trying to look like he knew what he was doing. The impact of the halberd drove him back several feet, twin trails cut through the arena floor before being stomped flat as the Mansplitter pressed forward.

A near blinding array of light shone from the enormous machine as it pummelled the farmboy, now almost effortlessly fending off the halberd and looking more and more confident by the second. A grin appeared as the landship made a dipping halftwist towards the urchin with its body, confusing Fantassy for the split second before he followed the blade and leant into the thrust through the newly-revealed defensive gap. The sword scant centimetres from the hull, the long, flexible and rather whip-like lefthand antler adorning the Mansplitter’s head wrapped around the farmboy’s leg and the Shrimperial machine straightened, flinging Fantassy skyward and into the perfect position to be swatted to the ground like the pest he was.

“FIFTEEN LOVE, WRETCH!” screamed K’t’Za as he brought the halberd down and utterly smashed the ragamuffin into the arena floor. The sword, predictably, had blocked the halberd’s blow but could do nothing about the spine-cracking impact of soft pudgy body and hard jagged dirt. The area around the impact splintered into a mad labyrinth of cracked rocks and shattered earth, and dust fountained upwards, shrouding the scene in bloody red as the Mansplitter flickered.

“Finally! Now, A’to, go find out what you can salvage from the minibar. J’gi, double-check the secondary weapon systems in case we can maim his corpse further. I, shall sit here and gloat.”
“Er, J’gi, what did he mean by fifteen love?”
“It’s a reference to the skinbag pastime tennis. The one with the rackets, the strawberries and the ass scratching. Whatever an ass is.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. Just…”
“What?”
“Wasn’t it spelt with a p, not a t?”

“DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE!”

The conversation was rudely interrupted by the sound of the halberd being cut in half, as the halberd was cut in half. The Mansplitter jumped back before the pointy end had time to clatter twice, dropped the handle and crouched in preparation. The dust cleared revealing a glowing shield seemingly made of blades of light, which faded to reveal a laughing Fantassy standing untouched above the crater. He then said something that in hindsight was very, very unwise.

“Hah, I laugh at you, your silly Shrimperium and your stupid Shrimperor!”

The Mansplitter stopped dead. The light emanating from inside faded to a mere glow. Fantassy felt heartened by this – clearly, the machine had failed! – until the head slowly tilted down to stare directly at him. As the seconds ticked away, he shifted on his feet uncomfortably under the gaze.

“…All core safety restrictions disabled, sir. Core power coupling is clear, EYE LASERS are now fully operational.”
“…EYE LASERS functionality confirmed. Transformation to shrimp mode on your mark, sir.”
“Airsucking mark, gentlemen.”

Parts of the giant robot separated, flowed together and shifted as it changed. The overall mass grew closer to the ground and longer, stretching out into a shape Fantassy had never seen before, but what he assumed was a shrimp of mantis or whatever the huge metallic horror had talked about. Multiple legs under a curtain of chitin-like armour, several arching antennae spreading from above large scintillating eyes, and two claws, one sizably larger than the other, both fearsome. As he stared at the beast, the light blazing and ebbing from the joints like an irregular heartbeat, he said, “What-”

The sword flashed up to deflect two burning red beams away from his face, scattering off into the crowd and igniting dozens of onlookers. While Fantassy recoiled from the heat, he failed to notice several of the following events. He missed the Mansplitter surging forward at blurring speed, he missed the sword breaking his right arm three times in its haste to guard him, he missed the impact of the largest claw striking the sword and breaking the arm in a further five places, he missed the cavitation bubble formed in the air by the speed and strength of the claw blasting off the sword’s hastily-made shield and outward, and he missed the sonoluminescence created by the bubble reaching temperatures similar to the surface of a star and instantly incinerating the surface of most of the body parts the sword couldn’t reach in time, too fast and too hot for the nerve endings to register before carbonisation.

However, as he fell to his blistered knees in front of the impassive Mansplitter, as the nerve signals finally made their way to his mind from the ash that used to be his skin, as he tried to cradle his shattered right arm with his blackened claw-like left, as his ravaged ears slowly began to recognise the tortured scream growing in intensity as his own, he most certainly noticed the pain.

He also noticed that the sword was speaking to him. So Fantassy listened.

This post has been edited by Count Rugen: 07 March 2009 - 01:45 AM

Hello, soldiers, look at your mage, now back to me, now back at your mage, now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he stopped being an unascended mortal and switched to Sole Spice, he could smell like he’s me. Look down, back up, where are you? You’re in a warren with the High Mage your cadre mage could smell like. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s an acorn with two gates to that realm you love. Look again, the acorn is now otataral. Anything is possible when your mage smells like Sole Spice and not a Bole brother. I’m on a quorl.
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