[Hugin & Munin]

JUDGE POST

D'rek Vs Sir Thursday

Voting Result : Sir Thursday Wins!
STD - 7 (Morgoth, Tapper, Alt, Mez, JA, Mentalist, Cause)
D'rek - 5 (dibs, BtE, Shin, Illy, Grief)


Finale:

Chest heaving, legs giving out, bleeding profusely in numerous places, Lippmer slowly pushed himself away from the sandstorm-girl one bodily lunge at a time. The sober clarity brought on by adrenaline and the sandstorm's depletion of the alcohol in his blood made it evident to himself that he was not going to survive this battle. Should've brought a few litres of ribena. Could've soaked the girl entirely, or set it on fire. Or at the very least died properly drunk... Catherine was too busy concentrating on guiding that little boy's body, but he could still hear her muttering to herself, as always.

A boyish cry and a womanly scream rang out in his ears and in his head, respectively, and he pivoted his head around to see the sandstorm envelope the figure of Luke, while the continuous mutterings from Catherine abruptly ceased. Sorrow overcame Lippmer as the one woman who had loved him for decades while he wasted away, was now torn from him, now finally passed from the mortal world. Unable to lie to himself anymore, he cried out in the anguish that he had never deserved such love, and had even then sought to deprive her of himself, of all that she loved.

Filled with a true sense of purpose for the first time in his life, Lippmer turned about to crawl back. Back towards the boy and girl, still struggling over the boy's sword. Lippmer spared no thought for them, whichever figure the sandstorm now controlled, it would kill him with ease. His eyes narrowed on the remaining traces of a small pool of acid leftover from his deflection, still burning its way through grass and soil.

With the last strength of his legs he launched himself onto his stomach, just barely within reach of the acid, towards which he feebly extended his left arm. His hand suspended over the pool, he gave his final examination of the wedding ring on his third finger. Until death shalt thou never part, the very words High Alchemist Varuk had cursed him with on his wedding day, were engraved directly into the ring in a continuous line of flowing script around its exterior.
A minute rotation of the ring, a whispered "I love you", and then his strength gave out, conciousness faded and his hand fell upon the acid.

***

Minutes later, the arena's sensory equipment confirmed the death of Lippmer and tournament officials rushed into the arena to halt the struggle between Luke and Sam, who were, after all, registered as being allies. While the sandstorm, and thus Luke's body, were cajoled to the center of the arena for a short victory ceremony, Luke followed Catherine's incessant pleading and steered Sam's body to the motionless form of Lippmer. Examining the acidic burns across Lippmer's hand, Catherine made a deafening gasp within Luke's head. He couldn't understand what surprised her though, all he saw was a wedding ring, the bottom surface etched by acid, with an ordinary sentimental phrase: shalt thou never part.

This post has been edited by Path-Shaper: 12 June 2009 - 03:08 PM

[temp]

Temp vs Grief Intro (post 1 of 4)

click clack. click clock. -- the sound her knee-high leather boots made as she entered the arena. The 2 inch stilletto heels seemed an awkward thing to bring into a fight...well, at least the heel could double as short spike should the need arise. The fishnet stockings and tight leather skirt could also be viewed as inappropriate attire for a deathmatch. But let's face it, Ariel had no illusions here...she was not going to defeat any of these roid-raging ego cases using strength, or even quickness. Just by watching the other matches, she saw athleticism and strength on full display.

No, Ariel's weapons were guile and wit...and of course a few tricks up her sleeve. This was not just a figure of speech -- quite literally, she was wearing long sleeves, and there were plenty of tricks up there.

Just hours earlier she'd been in the lab concocting some poisons and narcotics: hallucinogens, tranquilizers, synthetic nerve toxins, acid bombs, pain inhibitors, explosive flasks...you name it. Some of her more creative genetic experiments might also make an appearance or two.

The problem, as is often the case, was in finding the appropriate delivery method to unleash these vile creations.
"Here Mr. Ambir, please drink this before the fight", was not going to go over very well.

Some obnoxious men in their early twenties or so blew catcalls at her as she swayed into the arena. She smiled privately, knowing the power she had over men, but was otherwise disgusted by these heathens.

Ariel pulled a short straw-like tube from her belt and loaded it with a thorn that was sticky with some substance. Might as well give it a trial run first. She raised the tube it to her lips, targeted those very same men that were blatantly staring at her with desire, and drew a curt breath before exhaling quickly. The projectile whistled through the air to it's destination in the man's neck, piercing the skin and drawing blood.
Not seconds later, a look of ecstatic joy painted his features--for a moment anyway. Then he keeled over and began writhing spasmodically on the ground, green puss foaming out of his mouth. The ceisure abated, he was dead.

"huh. Wuss", she whispered under her breath. The dead man's comrads were no longer smiling and jeering.

Ariel pulled out a flask that was nestled beside her belt knife and dabbed some perfume on her neck and wrists. It was an oil based compound, aged for about 10 years with a touch of spirits and wort root. The smell it gave off was barely noticeable, but she was not applying this because she wanted to smell pretty. There were other, more meaningful affects attributed to this liquid -- the most important of which was that to take a wiff was to render the victim completely enamoured with the first thing they would set their sights on. Call it a love potion if you will. Those of weak mind would find themselves unable to resist, although it's affects on the more strong willed might be less potent. It was a small comfort, her version of armour. Perhaps it might act to stay the hand of a killing thrust should an attacker get too close.

She checked the rest of her possessions. Yep, everything was ready.

"okay boys, come and get me", she called out to whomever would listen.

This post has been edited by temp: 19 February 2009 - 01:58 PM

[Grief]

Place holder, Grief vs Temp Intro(post 2 of 4)

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

Ambir stared at the withered branches outside his window. The blossoms had been so bright. So full of life. But a moment ago. Now gone.

With but a touch.

I am...I am a virus to this place. The planet, it screams at my very being here. My very existence is as poison. And yet, never, never have I felt so alive.

His head was buzzing. His whole body itched, a thousand creatures beneath his skin trying to squirm free. He had taken life before. He could recall it, vividly, draining the very essence of beings from them, as their eyes stared in horror. He was a plague, and here, in this place, it was so hard, so hard to control. He was pressed as never before. Animals fought, struggled to keep from him, as their primal instincts screamed at the sheer wrongness. He had to consciously steal, to draw their life. He could no longer avoid taking it from life that did not resist. It was hard to stop himself taking it from life that did.

The attendant opened the door, to meet the sight of Ambir, glaring down at his hands. She coughed slightly, and his head whipped up. His eyes...The brightness of the blue, she was used to that, but today, it was different. Thin amber streaks criss-crossed his eyes, standing out in stark contrast, like golden bolts of lightning against the deep cobalt of his eyes. The attendant took a small step backwards, before remembering herself.

“My lord” she whispered, her throat suddenly dry. Coughing, she raised her voice.
“My lord.” She repeated. “You are needed. Your match is up. You must select your weapons”

He sat in silence. His bestial eyes were fixed upon her.

“My lord, you must come to the weaponry.”
“No” he muttered.
“My...”she started, before realising he wasn’t talking to her.

She realised he was shaking.

“Get out!” he gasped. He could sense her. Her life burned, so brightly, so brilliantly. He could almost make out every vein, every drop of blood, where the life was so aflame. The scent of it filled his nostrils.

“You have twenty minutes” she murmured, as she backed from the room. She did not run. Her self control was too great for that, but as she trotted hastily away from that room, her sense of relief grew larger and larger.

He was alone once more. He pulled on a shirt, buttoning it up to a comfortable level, and leaving the cuffs undone. The garment concealed the flowing tattoos across his arms and chest, which seemed so much more visible now than usual.

His fight. The reason he was here. The only reason. He would leave after the tournament was done. He did not know where to, but not here. Definitely not here. Somewhere else.

He stumbled from his room, holding onto the doorframe for support as he passed. The journey along the bare wooden floor of the corridor and down the stairs seemed to take an eternity. He stood before the entrance. A part of him screamed that he should not be here, on this world. Shaking his head he pushed aside the doors and entered.

His head reeled. The hall seemed abnormally large. He stepped outside again, checking the boundaries of the walls.

“Yes” a small man with a beard confirmed “It is bigger on the inside. Now, what kind of weapon do you wish for” the man asked, before reeling off a list of words that Ambir had never heard before, as he pointed around to all the foreign looking weapons on the wall, most of which looked like metal clubs.

Sensing his confusion, the bearded man hefted down one of the blubs from the wall. There was a slightly click as he moved something, and then considerably less of the wall than previously.

He raised his eyebrows.

The wall started to rebuild itself, as the man replaced the weapon.

“Do you have, swords?” he asked.

The man looked up at him, half in irritation, half contempt.
After about a minute the man grudgingly spoke. “Third isle on the left.”

Ambir nodded his appreciation, and turned to look at the selection. A sign above boasted “Every Sword Ever Made!” There were, indeed, thousands of them. Long swords, short swords, swords with serrated blades and many swords of shapes he had never seen before. On the isle next to him there was just a gigantic hilt, the blade attached running into the distance, and out of sight. He meandered along the isle for some time, occasionally lifting and testing a sword.
He turned back to the sign, before calling over a nearby assistant, another short bearded man. Or perhaps it was the same one.

“My swords?” He asked. “You have them here?”

“But of course” the man replied, as if that was something blindingly obvious “Did you not read the sign?”

“My swords.” He said, this time with more force. “Bring them to be”

“Name?” the man sighed.

Upon hearing the reply he set off down another isle, muttering under his breath about the number of Ambirs in the universe, the hassle of finding his swords.
They stopped. Still more swords ahead of him. He let his mind roam, eyes scanning. Left, they called to him. Pulling him along the isle, ignoring all other weapons. Left. And there they were, his long, curved blades, sitting beneath a weapon that appeared to be made entirely of glass.

He took them from their place, unsheathed them, and quietly informed the bearded man of his selection.

Sand billowed across the arena, as he entered, golden-red swords firm in his grip, whispering to his blood.

His opponent stood across the arena. His blood sung to him. Something was odd. Wrong. She carried no weapon that he could see. A mage? Perhaps. The swords sighed as he sheathed them across his back. Flinging a crackling ball of fire out ahead of him in her direction, he began to walk slowly forwards.

[temp]

Temp vs Grief fight (post 3 of 4)

When faced with adversity, there are two types of people. You can complain and find faults in others. Point the finger in other directions, shirk responsibility, turn and hide. Or, you can take matters into your own hands, step up to the plate and get the job done. If something knocks you down, get right back up again and
keep plugging.
The world is full of both types. Ariel? well, she falls into the latter category of course.
She studied her opponent, and here was adversity personified. There was some sort of energy about him that she couldn't quite put her finger on. He did not wait for formal introductions, sending some type of magical fireball towards her..easily avoided, but she suspected this was not really an attack yet, he was just measuring, trying to get her to reveal her secrets.

She curtsied before him, a sly flirtatious smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eye. No reaction. Was this even a man? He seemed to be warring with some internal demons...perhaps it was just focus and determination, not to be broken by her feminine wiles?

no, that's not it. oh, I see now...he must have a penchant for his own kind
He plays for the same team as it were. Nothing wrong with that, but it does take away my main advantage.

No matter, this guy seemed all business anyhow. With a flick or her wrists, she produced an item in each hand. In the left hand was a pellet of some sort, and in the right, a tiny testtube with a yellowish substance.

She threw the pellet to the ground. A burst of white light temporarily blinded her opponent, and where Ariel had just been standing was now puff of smoke, slowing rising and dissipating. Ambir searched the arena, but he did not see the vile thrown in his direction until it was too late. He did manage to deflect it with his sword at the last second, so it didn't strike him full on. The vile shattered on impact with the sword, and the strange liquid contained within was now on it, and some had splashed onto his face. A sizzling sound erupted from his sword.

Acid

The acid bubbled for a few seconds more on the sword, but then somehow lost it's effectiveness, it was undamaged.

His face though...it didn't fare as well as the sword. The skin on his cheek seemed to melt off his face. An injury that would haunt him for the rest of his life...that is, if he survives the day. He screamed, not in pain really, but more in frustration.

"Damn these guys and their fancy swords", Ariel cursed inwardly.

She had managed to strike the first blow though, which was a small victory of sorts.

Another flick of the wrist, another item produced in her hand. This time it was tiny jar with holes poked in the lid. Inside the jar was a wasp, who's exoskeleton was mostly onyx, with bands of white stripes along it's abdomen. Ariel opened the lid, and flicked the jar in Ambir's direction. The wasp took to wing, a vicious
looking stinger seemed to make it's otherwise natural flight look awkward.

Normally insects would not sting unless they felt endangered. This one was not your average insect, it seemed to hone in on it's target as if it's sole purpose in life was to attack.

Once again, Ambir was too slow to recognize the thread. The wasp landed on his right hand and immediately drove its stinger deep into his flesh. Ambir crushed the bug with the pommel of his other sword, however the wasp had already delivered it's payload.

Excruciating pain shot up is arm. He dropped his sword, the fingernails on his hand turned black and fell off. His hand lost it's natural colour and looked more like the hand of a dead man...and indeed, it was dead. The pattern of decay started to creep up his arm, it needed to be stopped now or this match was over.

It left him with little choice. With his good arm, he brought the sword high above his head, and with a single swing he brought the blade down just above his right elbow. The metal ripped through his arm, severing tendon and bone alike, leaving nothing but stump.

His arm, now fully consumed by the poison, lay on the ground. He'd managed to stop the spread of decay, but he was now much weaker having lost a lot of blood. Ariel saw him whisper something...somehow the flow of blood from his stump of an arm had ceased.

Ambir looked up, a new-found anger in her opponents eyes, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was missing an arm.

"Oh shit", she said, as he strode towards her.

This post has been edited by temp: 27 February 2009 - 08:40 PM

[Grief]

Place holder, Grief vs Temp Fight(post 4 of 4)

___________________________________________

Pain. Such pain.
Fire, streaming through his veins, burning all in its’ path.

The pain was fading now. His arm lay inanimate on the ground, the dark blood that soaked the ground around it hissing and sizzling upon the sand.
A single insect, the cause of all this. And he had missed it. An insect. He could not help but appreciate the bitter irony of it.

His eyes blazed, and a new fire ran through his veins. Cleansing. His face contorted, and he fell to his knees. His scream echoed loudly throughout the arena.
His eyes writhed. His skin seemed to twist and turn.

No.

Ringing through the air. The whisper, somehow louder than the scream that had been torn from his throat a moment earlier.
He was aware of his opponents’ eyes upon him as he knelt there.

Digging his sword into the ground, he used it to push himself up, where he stood a moment, gaining his feet. He stumbled towards her, his vision blurred, head reeling. The explosion rocked him, lifting him like a ragdoll taken by the hand of a malicious colossus. Casting him across the arena. He lay there, fallen against the cool stone of the wall, head slumped against his chest. Dry air flooded his lungs, burning his throat, as he gasped in ragged breaths.

A shadow fell across him, a dark figure blotting out the sun that beat down upon him. He looked up, tilting his head back to gaze up at his opponent. A droplet of blood crawled slowly down his face, into his eye. He blinked.

The expression on the face of his opponent scared him. It was curious. Calculating. As if this was all some big test.

She sighed, almost, almost as if she was disappointed, as she reached for a long, needle like blade which appeared to be made of glass. It glinted maliciously in the sun.
His thoughts were still blurred, disconcerted. A jigsaw, which could not be pieced together.
His own blade lay discarded, metres away, shining sorrowfully, as if it knew what was about to happen.

Her blade shone maliciously in the sun. It was suddenly so cold, though the sun yet beat down. The blade seemed to emanate the chill, frost gathering along it’s edges, in anticipation of the blood that would soon flow freely along it. His blood. He was so cold. So tired. His eyes struggled to stay open, in vain, before fluttering shut.

Disappointed are you? Bitch.

He became aware of the roaring then, which had started off as so small a buzz.

Live.

We will not die. We will not fail. We are legion.

Live.

His eyes snapped open, arm whipping up to connect with her wrist. He held it there, the point of that icy shard a mere hair away from his face.
A cruel smile distorted his lips, turning to a snarl, baring his teeth at her. Her deep eyes flew wider in shock, as he slowly pushed back. Both her arms were behind it now. Slowly, they inched away, the blade now hanging in the air between them.
A wave of fire coursed up his arm, smashing into her with a brutal shriek. She staggered back, and he scrambled to his feet. The fire was gone, veins of crimson ran up the blade a moment, before fading away.
He glanced left. The sword was too far away. She was between them, of all the luck.

He moved cautiously forward, prepared now for any tricks, but she just stood there, frowning.
They stood awhile, facing each other, neither moving. He could taste the blood in his mouth.
Suddenly, she pounced, flying through the air. He ducked her first blow, a high swipe with the knife, before diving to his side. There was a long, ragged cut across his side. From somewhere she had produced another blade, twin to the first. One moment, her hand was empty, and then, it was there, dragging across his ribs.
She followed him up mercilessly, blades whirring in a deadly dance. He stepped forward, into the whirring net. Blades flashed, one high, aiming for his throat, one low. He rolled with her, arm crossing hers, batting it away. He swung left, foot flickering outwards, but she was already gone, beside him, a knife speeding towards his eyes. He ducked, then came up, twisting as he grabbed her other wrist. Her hand gave a brief spasm, the knife arcing high into the air. Spinning back, he caught it, completing his turn to bring it straight down. The blades clashed then flew apart, the dancers moving apart once again.

That evened it up somewhat. They closed again. Matching each other perfectly, step for step, blow for blow. Even now his strength was sapping, his side ached, and blood gushed from him, flowing from him freely.
The parries rang across the arena, as the contenders slowly accelerated, the fatal rhythm of the dance quickening, ever quickening.
How much longer could he keep this up? Even with their strength, he was not sure. Minutes? Never had he been so tested. Never.
His knife came within a breath of her face, as she snapped it back, a small droplet of blood rolled lazily down her cheek.

He was tiring. He saw the knowledge there in her eyes. He went forward into the fray, yet again, the flow of the dance tugging him, this way and that.
He missed a step. A slight change of weight, the wrong way. A miniscule loss of balance, but it was enough. She honed in, a shark smelling a kill, driving him back. One step, and then another, and another. He reeled backwards, as she pressed her advantage.

Was it enough?

He fell back onto one knee, trying to protect himself from her ever seeking blade, the cold shard in his hand dancing but a moment behind.
Satisfaction was writ large across her face as she drove home her blade, deep, deep into his shoulder, the blade seeking painfully for his heart.
Her eyes widened suddenly, as he surged upwards, a bestial roar ripped from his throat. Realisation, coming too late.

Was it enough?
He hoped so.

His blade shrieked as it flew upwards, backed by all the strength in his body. Upwards. It connected, plunged deep, deep, and he heard her scream, her voice raising to join his, entwined together in bitter agony.
He fell to the ground, and lay there a moment. Blood seeped into the sand.
His chest heaved, his breath ripped through him.
Anticipation. A killing blow. Any moment now, he would feel the cold tearing through him. His heart thudded in his chest. There was nought more he could do. He could not fend off the darkness any longer. He fell deep into a troubled sleep, fearing that it would end at any moment.

[Hugin & Munin]

Judges Post

Temp Vs Grief

Voting Result :- Grief won

[alt146]

Alt vs Shin Round 1 Post 1



The control room of the Primal Competitors Entrance was probably the most boring place in the entire tournament complex. At least that’s how Dunn thought of it.
“Man this job sucks – even the janitors have more fun that we do”, he said, turning to his partner.
“You want to have to clean up the arena after a fight?” asked Jay. He was already annoyed at getting shafted to PCE , Dunn’s constant whining was just making things worse. “You’ve seen the mess the contestants leave. Hell, three janitors died last time, you know that.”
“Yeah, but it’s exciting right? Old Buxley even has part of a shattered blade from last time. He showed it to me.”

There was a long moment of silence as Jay glared and Dunn dreamt of scrounging gruesome discards.
“I don’t even know why Primal even exists anymore. Kidnapping some brute animal or giant caveman went out of fashion years ago. They always died like three seconds into the fights and everyone got bored with them.”
“Maybe someone’s feeling nostalgic this year, there’s one entrant that we need to handle. Just deal with it OK? Tell you what – you stop bitching till whatever the thing is arrives and the first round tonight is on me.”
“Sure. You better get your wallet ready, here comes the ship now.”

Jay tried hailing the ship, but it sent back a message stating it was on autopilot and that no one was available for communication.
“Hmm, that’s against protocol.”
“Whatever. The ship’s touched down and it looks like the cargo hatch is opening. Let’s just get this over with.”
Jay continued try to get in contact with the ship’s crew while Dunn stared down eagerly at his video feed. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The screen showed the back of a large ship, military by the looks of it. The rear loading bay door was open, but all that could be seen was a yawning darkness. Nothing happened. The screen flickered white with static. When it cleared there was something standing besides the ship. “Holy Shit, get a load of this.” Either the ship was much smaller than he thought, or the thing was huge. It looked almost like a cross between a crocodile and an ape, but leaner. Whatever it was, it had definitely gotten a good deal when evolution had handed out the teeth and claws. The creature swivelled its predatory head, seeming to look directly at the camera. Dunn had an eerie feeling it was straight at him, made worse by the fact that the monstrosity then smiled. At least ‘smile’ was the closest word Dunn could find; there really wasn’t anything that meant ‘curls back lips to expose a mouth full of razorblades’. Suddenly the screen went dead.

“Video feed’s out”, stated Dunn, more than a little rattled.
“Still cant get hold of anyone on the ship.” replied Jay.
“Maybe they were too scared to travel with the thing and just sent the ship here on auto.”
“Could be. Entrant scanning hardware also seems to be out. Protocol says we should go down there and assess the situation.”
“No way man, screw protocol. I’m not going anywhere near that thing. Just open the doors into the containment area. Hopefully it will get the picture and move down there on its own.”
“The bookies will be pretty pissed if we don’t hand them a scan.”
“Fuck’em. Let’s get the hell out of here. I need that drink. Now.”



The flight had been long, almost unbearably so. A sweet agony filled him and he knew there was only one way to find relief. Remembered screams sung in his ears. Imagined blood scented his nostrils, its copper palette painting a masterpiece on his tongue. “Soon”, thought Chanfar, stepping out of the ship.

He’d done everything he could to distract him from his hunger as he travelled. The ship now operated far better than its designers could have envisioned, every drop of speed eked out of it. Communication had been established with the nanobots circulating with his blood, they were now programmed to his exact wishes. Even his genetic code had been given a subtle tweak.
In his past life, all but the most basic manufacturing processes had been shunned, the construction of weapons anathema. His people believed that all they required could be achieved through the use of their bodies - they had long since moved past any reliance on constructs. These former taboos had been discarded and the ship’s fabricators programmed after fastidious research. Although it would be some time before they produced anything of worth.

Chanfar was disappointed to find his surrounds deserted. Annoyed, he jammed the irritating electronic signals investigating him. He looked around, noticing a camera focused on him. Grinning, he short-circuited it with a mental pulse. A few seconds later a large pair of doors swung open ahead of him.
The passage lead through a series of empty containment cells, obviously built to house animals of the large and vicious variety. He could have smashed them open, even broken through the fortified walls of the corridor if he wished. It would have been a waste of energy though; his senses told him there wouldn’t be anything of interest on the other side. It was more efficient to simply follow the path ahead of him.
A short while later he reached a sealed metal door. His nostrils twitched and his body tensed in anticipation. A glob of his spit landed on the steel of the doorframe, which sagged, buckling inwards. Chanfar reached through the hole and yanked the door off its hinges. An arena was revealed, filled with humans clearing away something organic and mushy. One of them spun, a bloodied mop falling to the ground beside him.

“At last.”

This post has been edited by alt146: 18 February 2009 - 03:50 PM

[Shinrei]

He sat alone in his cell. Rocking…rocking….always rocking. Hugging his knees tight to his face, he could taste his sweat with every inward breath. Every so often he felt the ripples through his pores, like a familiar lullaby.
Rocking….
He no longer slept, as sleep always brought the same dream. Now, he no longer had his mother to comfort him when he awoke. He had not asked for clothes, and none had been given to him. He still wore the rags he had been wearing when the men with promises entered the remains of his home. Well, he was used to being bare. The manner of his existence made clothes an…inconvenience.
He ignored the small puddle of blood and pus in which he now sat. It was just another aspect of his blessing. His curse. He wondered how his mother had endured it for so many decades. Even now, the taint of radiation struck through his veins, threatening to turn his passivity into rage, and rage into wonton destruction.
He let his mind wend from thought to thought, to help shield his consciousness from the constant torment entrapped within.
As was becoming his habit, his thoughts turned to what he would do to the men who killed his mother.
He knew their names. He knew their faces. William Snead. Bruce Keating. Robert Barronis. Ken Hoffman.
His daydream was simple. The four would be trapped in a non-descript warehouse. And each death would be more interesting than the last.
Hoffman would be the first. The fat bastard would try to run away. He’d stumble and fall, then scrabble to his feet. He would watch in horror as the black tendrils emerged from the boy. Such a small boy. So many twitching horrors.
The ones on the boys arms would twist and form four larger cords, blackened and twisting. As he would watch, mouth open to scream, they would lash forth. Striking with precision the thick black ropes would shatter his elbows, his knees. Falling helpless, the ropes would twist around his neck. He would feel their shining smoothness and the caress of millions of interwoven chitenous segments. Drawing taut, there would be a small pop and then sickening tear as his head came off.
Barronis would watch his colleagues head roll across the floor and then look up to see the boy regarding him. Numb with shock, he would only stare as the thicker ropes would unwind, returning to their tens of millions. “They say the body has a million pores per square inch….” was the useless fact that would flit through his brain. Slowly at first, the millions of tendrils would reach out and envelope him like the hug of a terrible spider. Swifter then, too swift for the eyes the millions of black arms, thinner than any razor, would snap tight. Smoothly, almost lovingly, they would cleave through the entirety of his body.
Keating would tear his eyes off the pile of mushy pulp that was Barronis, and he would go berserk. Screeching, he would try to claw his way by hand through the concrete wall in front of him. As such, he wouldn’t see the roiling waves of tendrils as they lashed down over him. Each tiny hair-like tip left its own lashing sting, stripping a microscopic bit of skin. Each coruscating wave would take more and more skin, then muscle, then bone as the millions of black horrors slowly flayed his living carcass.
Finally….Snead. He would try to meet death calmly, so he would receive…special treatment. He would wait and watch, as the boy would turn and send death his way. He would shudder as they began to enter his body. Millions of tiny pin pricks, probing deeper and deeper. But none would enter his vital organs. He would find himself suspended above the floor, weeping blood from tiny holes until incensed by the pain he would cry out. At this final submission, the tendrils would splay outwards from where they had entered, slicing through the quivering wreck that was Snead with sickening hiss.
A sigh escaped the boy then. How wonderful it would be, come that day…

The attendant who was sent to fetch the boy entered the cell. Her eyes started as she regarded not a boy, but what seemed a seething mass of darkness. She blinked, and it was gone. Only a very small ragged boy sat in front of her. She wondered then if the violence of the tournament was causing her to imagine things.
The boy turned to regard her then, with a grin that spoke black whispers. She began to shudder uncontrollably as, in a voice so warm and sickly with desire he said, “My turn?”

[alt146]

Alt vs Shin Round 1 Post 3

William Snead looked down at the arena. His pulse quickened and he felt a thrill, almost sexually strong. Not that he would ever admit to it, especially to the three men in the skybox with him. That would be… unbusinesslike. He steeled himself, mentally ensuring that the stony expression he wore at times like this was firmly in place.

“Hmmm. That is interesting” said Snead, turning to face his colleagues. Keating looked bored. Hoffman looked sweaty. Barronis just looked. Barronis was probably the only person to ever beat him at poker.

“Can we just get on with this Bill, we’re not supposed to be here.” Typical Hoffman - nervous little piggy that he was. His associates had remained long after the stadium had cleared so that they could discuss which contestant should face the boy in the next round. As well as what bribe to offer to ensure their choice. The military would probably deliver some sort of bear with a laser grafted to its head, nothing that would give the child pause. Or at least that’s what they’d thought. The beast running amok several stories below made it look like their planning may have been in vain.

The telephone rang and Keaton lifted the receiver to his ear. A few seconds later he placed it back down. “They’re bringing the boy up now”.
“Now? That’s against all the rules. The sponsors will blow their tops!”
Snead wasn’t sure how much longer Hoffman would remain part of their little organisation.
“They didn’t have a choice. The fight starts now.”
“Well gentleman,” said Snead, turning back to the window, “let’s enjoy the show.”




Blood thrumming, heart racing, the universe played a sweet, sweet song. He knew it wouldn’t last for long, but for the moment he was sated, satisfied. In fact, he felt something akin to bliss. The corpses of the human workers lay scattered around him, painting a scene of artistic destruction. Chanfar smiled down at his masterpiece and began cleaning his brushes. He slowly licked the entrails and flecks of bone off his claws, delicately tracing each rivulet of blood up his arms.
The hissing of doors from the other side of the arena cut through his reverie. A male human child staggered out. It was filthy, dressed in rags and seemed barely mobile. Some street urchin, presented as a sacrifice to appease him. It wouldn’t help the humans at all, but he’d let them bring him as much food as they liked.
“I think I’ll keep you for later” he thought, adjusting the level of venom in his spit. A quick analysis of the arena later, he launched a large globule of paralysing saliva. It sailed through the air, spinning in the wind and spattering into the ground. Exactly where the boy had stood moments before.

Twin streaks of darkness arced out of the shadows several meters to the left of the door. At the last second they fragmented, ropey spikes bent on impaling his eyes, heart, kidneys and limbs. Chanfar danced upwards and backwards, taken off his guard. Arms and legs flashed out, claws scything through the air. Landing on all fours, he snorted at one of the pieces of darkness fluttering down around him. His eyes narrowed as nasal sensors analysed the fragment. It was hair.

Chanfar’s bloodlust flushed back to a tiny burning core. Now it was worse than being inflamed with violence. He was curious. In the meantime the boy had darted forward and now stood a few metres away. He regarded Chanfar with cold eyes that belied the child’s age.
“I’m going to kill Them.” The words fluttered out of the boy’s mouth. “Because they killed Mother. But first I have to kill you.” The little orphan sounded eager.
“A brave speech, but none of my concern” growled Chanfar. “You have intrigued me human. That shall be your undoing. I shall make your death painless, if it is any consolation. Unnecessary trauma would hamper my research. I would know your name.”
The child’s eyes widened in confusion. “My name?”
“Yes, in case I must investigate more than just your anatomy.”
“I used to have one, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“A pity” sighed Chanfar, bursting forward. He swung his left arm, a single claw aimed for a point just behind the urchin’s temple. Darkness flared out, grasping his wrist, pulling him off balance. A slash with his right freed him before any of the tendrils could pierce his scaled hide. Skidding past, he used the momentum from the child’s pull to tumble onto his arm in a feint. Both feet flashed out as he somersaulted upwards. The child simply lent back, ropes of darkness shooting upwards. Chanfar felt his legs being pushed and punctured, sending him gyrating backwards mid-flight. He twisted in midair, slashing and evading as best he could given the circumstances. Stinging pains in his thigh and shoulder told him it hadn’t been good enough.

Chanfar landed with a thump, barely managing to stay on his feet. The strands piercing his flesh snaked backwards. Nanobots near his wounds responded to an inwardly focused signal, dragging his flesh back together. He lurched upright to face the child. Who had transformed.

A writhing darkness engulfed it, arachnid tendrils holding it aloft. They impaled the ground as they moved the swirling mass forward, sending tiny fissures fractaling towards him. Chanfar looked up at the pulsing apparition. It shuddered in anticipation. It seemed he had found a kindred spirit. He understood. This was no longer about securing a specimen. This was about survival. This was about the Fight. He felt the raw, burning hunger flare out again as he prepared a new poison.

Or rather - a very old poison. One that had been used by his ancestors when they had still hunted the plains and erected huts of skin. Its diluted form had been used to prepare the hides of their kills for later use. DeathMatch Analysts would later mistakenly declare it to be industrial strength hair remover.

[Shinrei]

Shin's 2nd post (4 of 4)

Poison readied, Chanfar crouched in anticipation of the roiling cloud’s approach. He recognized that it was nearly impossible to dodge those flailing appendages at close range, so most likely the boy would come close in order to recommence his attack. It would be at this range when he would launch his poison. “I may not be able to dodge, but neither will he…”
It occurred to him then that he may want to take a closer look at those hairs, as misjudging their actual range could prove be fatal. In a brief nanosecond he accessed his optical enhancement and tracking protocols to take a quick peak at the base of the black tendrils.
It was then he first realized something was amiss. The focal features of his interior processors were not reacting properly. Instead of a crystal clear picture, fully capable of tracking even a single hair in that mass, he was instead seeing an unfocused smoky blur. In the brief hundredth of a second it took to realize that there was a problem, the processing power of his neural network calculated the possible threat.
If the system had been designed to be emotive, it would have said, “What. The. Fuck.” There was some sort of energy radiation beginning to interfere with the transfer of information in the network. The radiation, his mind told him, was of a type that was not immediately identifiable, being emitted by something close by.
Chanfer’s normal conscious self, fully capable of the emoting his neural network lacked, muttered “Fuck it,” and switched back to his normal vision.
This had all taken place in the span of a single second.
The boy closed. Chanfer grinned toothily in anticipation of the killing clash.
As the tendrils began their caress, he spat. It was unavoidable – a foul yellow mist enveloped the boy. Within seconds, the stench had the first rows of spectators on their knees retching.
Chanfer could care less. He had other problems. His body was now telling him that the nanobots within his body were proving sensitive to this mystery radiation. They were beginning to fail. And die.



The boy fell back, propelled on his multitude of legs. He began to withdraw his appendages to clean them of the yellow slime that now coated them. In doing so, thousands of them showered from his body. His howl was a thing of shock and rage, edged by panic and childish pitch.
“I’ll kiiilllll yooooooou!” he screeched. As he roiled forward to attack again, cold despair slipped into him. He could feel more and more of his weapons going limp and falling away. It was become difficult to keep balanced, or move with his accustomed precision. He had to kill it! Kill it NOW or fail. Fail!
The giant lizard moved like an eel, faster than anyone would think capable, but his black whips, cuts and stabs were faster. Striking again and again through spiny skin into flesh, he desperately probed for anything vital even as he was falling apart. Tears spun like diamonds off the tendrils near his eyes, and he struck and struck and struck. The mounting desperation of both combatants in their deathly dance became a palpable thing.
No matter how many times he flayed or pierced the thing, it never seemed to slow. Concentrating on where he assumed vital points to be, he flung stabbing black needles deep through skin and muscle to the softer stuff below. He began leaving these pieces of himself imbedded in the creature. Twisting strands, snapping them taut he felt them sever tendons and strands of muscles. But the strength of his monstrous talent was slipping away with each strand he lost.
Defenses falling away in clumps now, the boy was unable to deflect a blasting slap from the lizard’s enormous fist. Only by some skin creeping instinct the few remaining tendrils left attached to his body propelled him backwards and away. After a mere 50 meters, these too collapsed and the boy lay unconscious.



Barronis exhaled, realizing then he had been holding his breath.
Keating spoke, “My God…If somehow that monster isn’t fatally wounded and he makes it to the boy, we’re lost.” Barronis nodded numbly.
They watched then, in brooding silence, as the lizard took one step forward, then another, swaying as it did so. It coughed suddenly, dark blood jettisoning from its maw. Another stumbling step, as if there was something wrong with its balance. The body of one small frail boy, curled in the dust of the arena, reminded Barronis of a broken sparrow that had flown into his kitchen window.
His eyes narrowed then, and he fumbled for his binoculars just as Hoffman spoke. “Is the boy…my God, is his skin melting??!!”
Snead’s dry rasp made them turn their heads. He stood, looking down onto the arena, hands clasped behind his back. Softly he spoke, “If the boy’s body is doing what I think its doing…. it’s time we start rooting for the lizard to make it.”

This post has been edited by Shinrei no Shintai: 24 February 2009 - 01:36 PM

[Hugin & Munin]

JUDGE POST

Alt146 v. Shinrei no Shintai

Winner Shinrei no Shintai

Finale

The pain was blinding, waves of agony crashing to the tide of his heart's beat. Synaptic warnings screamed for his attention, extensive damage reports scrolling past the periphery of his vision. Ruptured arteries, shattered bones, organs pierced and failing. He turned them all off, disconnected the nerves, turned off the pain. It was something that went against his every instinct - his race's greatest strength was their absolute knowledge of themselves, the ability to control themselves down to the molecular level. By relinquishing that control he became something less. It sickened him, but it was too late in any case. What was one more anathema? He'd been a fool. The reports had made it clear, he'd sustained damage far past that which his prodigious metabolism could deal with. If the nanobots he'd been gifted with weren't drifting lifeless through his veins he might have had a meagre chance of survival. But those few which survived where rapidly flowing with the last of his blood into the sands of the arena floor.

His arrogance had doomed him, possibly his entire species with him. The recrimination was almost as terrible as the pain. He wished he could turn it off too, but that was beyond even him. He looked up at the waif that had bettered him, through vision slowly fading to black. What he saw there stretched the limits of his understanding. His last thought was that time might just show he had actually been the lucky one.

This post has been edited by Hugin & Munin: 27 March 2009 - 12:17 PM

[Mentalist]

Mentalist, additional character info, post 1 of 2

Entering the portal was a familiar sensation. The loss of sense of time resonated with a numb pain that made Oleh cringe. He knew all too well that any full-fledged mage would be lying on what passed for a floor, completely paralysed with agony until the journey ended. Sub-space portals were anathema to the power conduits to which mages were linked. All mages.

"Except for the Thirteenth Order...… but that clan was eliminated years ago. We've made sure of it."

Oleh closed his eyes, localizing the source of pain—the twelve blessing marks left by the heads of The Twelve Orders. The power that was not his own, yet would serve him...…if he so chose.

The portal ended abruptly, spitting out Oleh and his guide in a different place. With astonishment, Oleh found himself in a lobby of a fancy early 20th century hotel. Turning to his grinning companion he asked, "How is this possible?"

"Welcome to the Ultimate Deathmatch, Pan Bury. In this place, reality is malleable. You interpret it in a way familiar to you, as does everyone else around you”

"When will I have to fight"
"Eager, are you?"
"I'd like to get this over with. I owe you, and I intend to pay my debt."
"My associates and I are in a privileged position this time. We have had certain… advantages over the sponsors of the other contestants. As such, your round 1 opponent tomorrow will be a token entry. Your true challenge will begin in Round 2"
"And when will I begin?""
"Tomorrow. You will have any weapons you desire available to you."
"Very well. I expect you to know that my bullets are custom-made. I'll need a lot more of them. I'll see you tomorrow."
"As you wish, Pan Bury."

Oleh made his way through the hotel. He already knew the room. As he stopped in front of it, he reached into his pocket and he found the key there.
As he expected.

Opening the door he found himself in the presidential suite. The door to the balcony was half open and he was sure that were he to go outside, he’d see the city lights reflecting in the slow, majestic river.

With sudden longing he wondered just how far this reality could be twisted, could he open the door to the adjoining suite and find her there, alive, untouched, waiting...

"No."

He forced the memory out. The interior shifted. A different hotel, with an empty fireplace, cold mountain wind through the open window and bare, whitewashed walls covered in soot from recent gunfire.

Easing down into an armchair next to the simple army-issue table, Oleh opened the pamphlet he found in the lobby that described the Round 1 match-ups. Scanning, he found his opponent and could not hide his surprise. He sat there for few minutes before getting up and walking up to the bedside telephone--the single piece of technology in the room. He punched in 9 digits, knowing that any number would get him the same answer.

"Hello, Smith here."
"This is Bury."
" Pan Bury? Who gave you this number?"
"I made it up."
"Oh. Well, what is it?"
"You put me up against a demigod."
"Yes, it is estimated the probability of his victory is .000000000001%."
"He is blessed. What other gods have power here?"
"Any god."
"What?"
"All gods have power here. No matter who you worship, you will find a wellspring here"
"This is a Neutrals' hub, isn't it?"
"Very perceptive, Pan Bury. Yes, this place is in the sphere of influence of the global neutrality, and the Deathmatch is designed to lower the amount of disturbances to the Balance, by eliminating their sources. All of the contestants are irritants that threaten to tip the tip the scales one way or the other. Most will be eliminated, and the survivors will be weakened."
"And you'll make a tidy profit of it"
"We are not a charity, Pan Bury."

Oleh lowered the receiver in place, contemplating the mess he got himself into this time. No being capable of disturbing the global Balance would be an easy opponent.

"I have no choice." With this though, a smile appeared on his thin lips. "If I am to face beings capable of tipping the Balance…I'll have to become one... Again."

His mind made up, Oleh settled down on the concrete floor in front of the empty fireplace and closed his eyes, focusing, as he unravelled the complex network of neuropsychic locks in his own body. Slowly, he removed the barriers to the dormant parts of his mind. Gradually, he allowed his body access to the stream of neural input from the silver crucifix on his chest. He felt it--energy? information?

He couldn't say what it was. He forgot the winded explanations of the scientists from the facility, their droning monologues about "priority signals", "internal muscle stimulation", "accelerated cell division"...…

All he knew was that soon his body's reaction would be quicker and his musculature would be rebuilt to withstand the challenges of the coming days.

As he removed further constraints, Oleh felt additional neurostreams, this time from the metal, alien bracelets on his wrists. He smelled the burning flesh as his fingertips turned black, as thin lines of fire traced their way to the middle of his palm, burning through flesh, re-forging the links to the place from where the demon Bahryanakrov drew his power. His demon.

"Crimson Blood. That's what they'd call him in English. The greatest among the creatures of Fire, my curse... and my strength."

Oleh opened his eyes. The spheres of swirling fire above his palms, fed by the lines from his fingertips, were still there. He relaxed, letting the fire go out. The lines disappeared and his demonic enhancements began the swift regeneration of his hands. He felt the energy there, and he knew it would be there tomorrow.

When he would fight against a demigod. Who would not live to see the dusk.

This post has been edited by Mentalist: 24 February 2009 - 02:58 AM

[Mentalist]

Mentalist, additional character info, post 2 of 2

The arena doors parted with an ancient-sounding creak. Oleh couldn’t help but smile at this, since he knew perfectly well that it was his own imagination that made it appear and sound so. This is how he envisioned a Deathmatch arena, and this is what it became.

He walked through the archway and onto the fine sand that covered the field where the fight would take place. “Appropriate”, he thought, “Since the released heat will soon turn this ground into razor-sharp glass. Whomever will have the misfortune of falling first, will not be getting up again.” With that, his gaze moved towards the opposite gate and the opponent that awaited him there.

Prometheus. The greatest of the Titans.

Fire-bringer.

In Oleh’s own world, Prometheus’s role was that of a tragic hero, whose intervention for the humans against the gods earned him damnation. This Prometheus did not hail from Oleh’s own Earth, nor was he out of divine favour. A titan blessed by his gods. Hailing from the world where Olympus was real—the wellspring of the world’s power.

And he wielded fire.

Oleh paid no heed to the announcer’s voice, nor did he register the opening of the opposite gate, as the massive Titan strode in, his feet raising sand clouds as he walked.

There were no introductions: they knew each other right away. The Titan- Oleh estimated him to be good 5 or 6 meters tall—held up a massive sword. But it wasn’t the sword itself that caught Oleh’s attention, but a small lighting bolt sigil on it. The mark of Zeus.

Lightning. Heavenly fire.
“Oh, blin”

The strike came quickly—lightning from a cloudless sky. Bahryanakrov was quick to point out the literality of the cliché, as Oleh tapped into the wellspring of power that was the heat of his own world’s core, conjuring up the shield of fire around himself mere moments before the Titan’s strike hit him.

The raw strength of the assault astounded him. For the first time in his life, Oleh felt the true divine might. This was nothing like the upstart deities that tried to claim his world. This was true, undiluted power. And it was all he could do to keep his shield steady, to prevent wild, raging power from burning him to a crisp.

He did not realize right away that the titan was coming towards him.

Predictably it were the footsteps that gave him away—something that big could not possibly walk silently. Looking up, Oleh saw that the titan had left the god-blessed sword impaled in the ground (which did nothing to stop it from pounding his shield with lightning on its own volition), and was now approaching, a heavy spear with an wickedly barbed point in his right hand.

Oleh knew too well that he wouldn’t last if the titan got close. Whatever Smith thought about odds certainly couldn’t have included a pissed off God—and that’s exactly what the sword was at this point—a conduit through which a raging God would pummel an upstart mortal into oblivion.

As the Titan approached, Oleh knew that the shield wouldn’t last much longer. Without a True Bond, the power he could get from Bahryanakrov’sconduit was not enough—and even were he to attempt the soul-destroying ritual now, he wouldn’t have the time to see it through.

Which left him few options. As always, he chose the most painful one.

No one in the arena, least of all Prometheus, expected Oleh to drop the shield. So, when the sphere of crimson fire exploded into a wave of heat that engulfed the arena, he almost stumbled into it. Almost, but not quite—reflexes worked, against disbelief. He jumped, letting the wave pass under him. His landing was painful, as newly sculpted glass cut through his sandals, but such wounds were trivial, as he raised his spear, ready to impale the charred husk of a mortal marked by Zeus’ wrath. His raised spear-arm began its descent, moving closer and closer…

…to say Oleh was in agony was to say nothing. Dropping the shield left him exposed to all of Zeus’s fury and the only reason he lived was because Bahryanakrov managed to shield his vital organs from the brunt of the hit. Even though the sword was out of the game now—the thin layer of glass from the sand kicked up by the titan’s feet blinding the God’s eye—Oleh hardly felt capable of using his left arm, with his right feeling only slightly better. So when the spear came at him, it took every bit of strength and all his endurance to not scream as he pulled out his dagger, blocking the solid, 4-meter spear some few hand spans away from his face. The titan grunted in surprise, but didn’t ease on the spear, pushing on it with all his considerable weight. Oleh felt his dagger slipping, jammed as it was among the barbs of the spear’s point. He let go, managing to slip to the side, as the titan’s spear shattered the glass-covered ground, sending razor-sharp bits and pieces of broken glass flying through the air, cutting any flesh unfortunate enough to be in their way. The force of inertia pulled Prometheus down with his spear, so that he caught the bulk of the shredding storm of glass. Oleh caught his own share, but he managed to cover his face before he fell. Though heavily singed, the heavy denim jacket, infused with the wards of the 12 Orders, stopped most of the shards aimed at his head As he stood up, he saw Prometheus stagger drunkenly, his face and body a bloody mess. He saw the titan topple, sending more broken glass into his back through the simple tunic he wore.

It took the last remainders of Oleh’s strength to crawl towards the fallen giant (leaving numerous trails of blood where the glass cut Oleh’s own charred form) and stick the dagger into the thrashing’s titan throat.

[Morgoth]

Morgoth vs JA

Round 2 post 1


------------------§------------------

Darkness. The smell of dust, blood and fear choked the air out of the hallway. There was nothing to see, there was nothing he could see. The darkness was absolute. Above him, around him, inside him, the deep thunder of ten thousand ragged voices vibrated in overwhelming bloodlust. There would never be sating of this insanity, all he could provide was a reprieve. Ben Doran swallowed and squeezed the bridge above his nose slightly. This was the worst part. The waiting.

A thin line, white, or perhaps blue cut the darkness in two only half a dozen feet in front of him. It cut through his eyes like a knife, stabbing directly into his brain. Slowly, almost erotically the line widened, flooding his world with burning light. Details forced themselves through the murk and shadow, revealing themselves to the world. The intricate carvings of the massive oak doors, the scratches on the hard stone walls, the blood and shit eternally marking the floor.

Following the light came the sound. It was a living thing, the sound. It flowed around him. Thundered in his ear. Strengthened his heart. Fear could not stand in the face of such onslaught. Adrenaline pumped through him and with firm steady steps Ben Doran entered the arena.

His opponent –he knew– used modern weapons. Guns, as if there was any honour in that. Any fun. A man who would not move close for the kill, who would not feel the last breath of his opponent on his face. Such a man was no man at all.

Something zipped past him like an angry wasp. Stone and dust splattered against the back of his head. Ben turned his body just as another flew past, and another and another. No fooling around then.

He started running towards his opponent. A giant of a man he was. Big and blonde with muscles bulging beneath his shirt. He held a machine gun and with it he fired round after round at the approaching leprechaun. Smoke from the barrel mingled with the smoke of his cigar, trailing up towards the heavens.

Ben smiled. A machine gun is so predictable. So easy to avoid. The bullets followed pre-set trajectories and it took him little effort to move his body the inch necessary to avoid the lethal payload. Then, as if by magic, the machine gun was gone. In its stead rested a long tube, broad and dangerous looking.
What the..

The rocket flew, not towards him, that had been proven ineffective, no, instead it hit the ground just in front of him. Fire licked outwards, enveloping Ben in it's loving embrace. Sand, grit and air hit him next like a truck at high speed. He was thrown backwards like a rag-doll and slammed into the smooth stone of the arena wall. The mute crack of head against granite made the spectators wince. The world spun and he could taste the sweet iron of blood where his teeth had pierced his tongue. Trying to clear his head, Ben...
... reached out to his pint and let the draught wash away the aftermath out of his mouth. A trickle of red ran down the side of his face from a deep gash above his eye. He grinned, and the glitter of white teeth made him look ghastly in the weak yellow light of the pub. Here sat the living proof that it was possible to go on a pub crawl through every sports pub in Glasgow wearing nothing but a Celtics shirt and a Union Jack kilt and live to tell the tale. Ben, my lad. You're a fucking legend.

Just as his glass turned empty he got company. Ben couldn't quite hide his surprise. Rare was the person who dared his table, especially when he was covered in blood.

"Foock off!" He said in his deadliest voice — he had practiced with a recorder to get it just right — just as his eyes took in the intruder. Or, more accurately, her legs. Long, slender and barely covered. Was that a skirt or a belt? He couldn't tell.
"Are you having another one of those?" Her voice was deep and melodious, with just a hint of whisky in the background.
"I might, aye."
"Would you buy one for me too?" She smiled at him, perfect white teeth flashing. Ben smiled back.
"I don't have my fake ID with me you see." Ben smiled even wider. He waved at Steve the bartender for two more.
"So, what are you doing here, girly? The Lund Inn is hardly a place for one such as yourself."
The girl arched an eyebrow, seeming strangely amused.
"And what am I exactly?"
"A girl"
"Oh, so this is a gay bar?"
"Close, it's a rugby sports-bar."
"Ah"
"But that's not what I meant... oh, here we are". The beer arrived in two foam covered glasses. There's nothing quite as beautiful as a full pint, but the girl was sadly not paying attention to this little slice of heaven. Her eyes followed the serving boy with a strange sort of focus. Noticing his look, she flashed her teeth once more, pulling back to him.
"I think that man just drooled on me."
"Nothing for you to worry about. It's just Chris. He's been a little off since Bill kicked him in the head."
"Bill?"
"Steve's ass."
"Oh..." They sipped their beer. Her eyes glittered with... mischief? He couldn't say. It didn't matter really. He wanted to drown in her eyes but there was something, a nagging high pitched whine was building in his ears. It was ruining the mood.

"You were telling me about this place."
"Ah... yes". Ben hesitated. The sound was growing stronger, pushing out between his words. He gritted his teeth.
"This here is a place for bad people, not for pretty girls like you."
"Perhaps I like bad people"
"There are bad people, and then there are bad people, girl." Pain had started building behind his eyes. He ignored it with an effort, trading it for sweat as his body fought his mind. She didn't seem to notice.
"Perhaps I like that kind of bad people. Bad men." She smiled like a tiger with a squeaky toy in sight, her leg brushing against his.
"Are you a bad man?" There was a suggestion in her voice even Ben's irish ears couldn't fail to pick up on.
"Girl" Ben forced a grin through the sound and the pain.
"I am a bad girl." The sound, the pain, stopped. All power rerouted to the sweat glands.
"Boy!... Man! I'm a bad man!"
Another smile flashed his way.
"I guessed as much." Said the girl who just a few months later would have him do her dishes and iron her curtains. Ben opened his mouth to say something, anything but his mouth was filled with blood and grit. A cough imploded out of his mouth, pulling air down his struggling lungs like a sledgehammer to his chest. Something cold pressed against his forehead. Not having time to think, Ben threw himself to the side just as a bullet slammed into the stone where his head had been but a moment before. He kicked out, hitting his opponents knee with a dry crack. The force of the kick was enough to guide him into a handstand and with a twist he was back on his feet.

The Duke roared as his leg buckled under him. His knees hit the ground and pain shot upwards through his spine like a vicious shot of electricity aimed at his brain. Before he had time to move the leprechaun was behind him. A predatory grin bored into his back as the boot of the green clad man slammed down between his shin and his heel. The sound of bone snapping rang through the arena like a proclamation of victory. The scream of the Duke mixed with the laughter of the leprechaun like two instruments in a symphony. The concert had just begun.

[Jump Around]

Morgoth vs JA

Round 2 post 2

-----------------§------------------

A long corridor, awash in flickering neon light. A few stairs, quickly climbed.

A door, held open by a frightened young man in a Yankees cap, trying to make himself invisible.

Beyond, the hot sand of the arena, shimmering under the mid-day sun.

The midget is waiting, hovering around the opposite wall.

Blink – machine gun. Duke starts to spray, empty shells popping high, cascading around in beautiful parabolic curves.

“Take that, you dirty rat!”

Too high. “Damn”.

The bullets connect with the wall above the leprechaun’s head. blink - rocket launcher, and without losing a second he lowers his aim and fires.

As the dust clears, is appears the homunculus is intact, but down.

As Duke approaches the prostate form, he sees it is still alive, twitching like a dreaming dog, a visible erection stretching his puffy pants.

“What are you waiting for, Christmas?”

As if on cue, the green-clad goblin jumps on his feet, yelling, a rabid foam dripping from his mouth. In one powerful sweep, he breaks Duke’s knee, sending him tumbling backwards. He jumps on Duke’s shoulders, grabbing the brick that had knocked him out, and brings it down with all his little might on his opponent’s skull.

And with a resounding “crack!”, Duke Nukem is dead.


*****


A long corridor, awash in flickering neon light. A few stairs, quickly climbed.

A door, held open by a confused young man in a Yankees cap, whose eyes widen as he sees Duke appear.

“Dude, didn’t you just, like, died? …” He might have wanted to say something more, but then there was gore.

Duke steps in the hot sand of the arena, shimmering in the mid-day sun, without wasting a moment on that question.

There is no death for Duke Nukem – he gave up on that a long time ago.

There are different reasons for fighting, but Duke knows them not. He knows not the fights to gain something, which he leaves for the weak and the incomplete. He knows not the fights to protect something, which he leaves for the mortal and the insecure. He knows not the fights for the noble cause, which he leaves for the proud in need of validation.

No, Duke Nukem starts his fights when it’s time to kick ass, and ends them when the bastards are done paying. Year after year, respawn after respawn, disembodied in a million sprites around the world, he knows nothing else, nor does he care to.

The leprechaun doesn’t see him approach, busy as he is staring is disbelief at the empty space where Duke’s corpse should, in all logic, still lay.

Blink – Rocket launcher. He lets one go, a sensuous trail of white smoke coalescing in its wake.

“I love the smell of burned crap in the morning!”

Too high. “Damn”.

The explosion rocks the arena, throwing a few spectators from their seats.

Duke is still scanning the dusty chaos of the rumble for signs of his opponent when he notices that one of the debris flying towards him is emitting a sort of “Raarrrrrrglglglglglglglglglgl” sound and sports two beady eyes gleaming with absolute hate.

Dukes tries to dodge, but as he wooshes by, the rabid little half-monster-half-nothing extends a hand, and stabs Duke in the eye with the sharp piece of rock he is holding to.

And before he even hits the ground, Duke Nukem is dead.


****


A long corridor, awash in flickering neon light. A few stairs, quickly climbed.

A door, held open by a shoe and a leg, left behind by two medics running for their lives, carrying a stretcher dripping with human remains and a Yankees cap.

Beyond, on the hot sand of the arena, shimmering under the mid-day sun, Bendoran is rabidly clawing the spot where, once again, the dead body of his opponent is not.

With his green suit still burning at some spots, he is at turns scratching and biting the earth, jumping, pulling the seven hairs of his beard, tugging at his shamrock hat, mumbling curses in ancient tongues, hurling his despair and incomprehension at forgotten Gods. And once again, he is oblivious to Duke’s presence.

Blink – Freeze gun. And off they go, fragile crystals cursing silently through the air.

“Let’s go get a cold one – on me!”

Too high – “Damn”

This time, the silent projectiles went unnoticed by the leprechaun, so Duke quickly adjusts his aim. Bendoran yelps as the first one hits, then the other, then the other. He turns around and tries to jump towards his opponent, but is stopped mid-way through his motion.

And there he stays, a frozen, glimmering sculpture, absurd and grotesque like a garden gnome forgotten outside for the winter.

Duke puts away his gun, and steps closer, smirking. He is going to finish this one with a punch that will shatter him halfway across the arena. And he is enjoying it, reveling in the fear and impotence in the eyes of the leprechaun as he comes nearer.

“It’s clobberin’ time!”

Suddenly, he feels a sharp stab on this shoulder, a blow of infinite cold piercing through his veins. He turns to see a line of crystals hurling towards him. The first salvo that was aimed too high, having bounced a few times around the arena, was coming directly for him.

“Son of a bitch!”. He tries to react, but they come too fast, and very hit slows him down. Blow after blow, the cold invades him, and the worlds becomes blue.

A few meters from him, Bendoran is still staring at him, with what could be triumph gleaming in his frozen eyes.


****


In the silent afternoon, the spectators hold their breath as the two ice sculptures continue their immobile confrontation. Imperceptibly at first, one of them starts to thaw.

Soon, the drops become obvious, flowing from the nose of Bendoran.

This post has been edited by Jump Around: 10 April 2009 - 03:02 PM

[Morgoth]

Morgoth vs JA

Round 2 post 3

------------------§------------------

Rage! It burns through his veins like liquid fire, crushing the invading ice crystals trying to block the path. Foam, almost boiling, slowly eats its way through the ice of Ben's mouth, running down his chin and neck with life bringing warmth. Steam floats above his head, released by the explosive increase in body heat. In a circle around the frozen leprechaun, tiny droplets of water fly like rain. Or spittle. Ben is angry. He's so angry he's vibrating.

The smaller of the two sculptures explode in a shower of ice and water. From the cloud of steam a scream ripples outwards, slicing through the noise of the crowd like a naked grandmother running through a que. The scream continues as Ben throws himself at the frozen form of Duke, and as his head slams clean through the big man's forehead, the screams reaches a pitch even more insane. Duke Nukem's body has disappeared again.

The Duke enters the painful glare of the sun and fires a shot towards the Leprechaun beating his fists bloody against the floor of the arena. It zings past his head like a wasp.

Too high - "Damn"

Ben spins around. His eyes are wide, insane rage burning as if they reflected the fires of hell. Spittle and foam mix together, soaking his chest and shirt all the way through. With a wordless cry he explodes with motion, his mouth moves continuously, as if even without breath he is still screaming profanities. With a speed unlike anything he's on the Duke. He throws himself forwards and buries his teeth deep into his opponents endowed crotch.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The Duke screams like he's never screamed before. Weapons dance in a quick succession as if they're his life flickering before his eyes. Ben growls, biting and tearing, moving his head back and forth with brutal strength. Among the spectators, several look sick, a couple faint. Then, the sound of flesh and cloth ripping kills all other noise as if by magic. There is, for a moment, absolute silence. Slowly, Ben stands up. The Duke falls down on his knees. Their eyes are level. Ben grins, blood and flesh drip from his mouth, little pink bits still stuck between his teeth. The Duke smiles too. He lifts his rocket launcher level with the leprechaun's now shocked face.

"Die!", he groans - voice a pitch or two higher than it was - and then he pulls the trigger.

The explosion throws the two fighters apart, the massive force of the blast dumping them at opposing sides of the arena. Ben Doran staggers to his feet, his lips still moving soundlessly, foam still bubbling from his mouth. A bullet zips past his head. The Duke has entered the arena. The leprechaun takes a step forwards only to fall flat on his face. Where his left leg used to be there's naught but a stump. The blast sliced his leg clean off just bellow the knee. Blood pumps out of it in a steady rhythm, almost gently soaking the sand red.

Duke Nukem walks towards his downed opponent, savoring every step. It was an impressive match. A painful one. As always though, the Duke wins in the end. He grins and lights a fat cuban cigar. Oh he will savour this.

With a massive show of will Ben gets up on his knee, but is not enough! The blond giant is getting ever closer and the world is growing fuzzy at the corners. Darkness creeps in at the edge of his vision. Suddenly he sees them. His brothers. They're standing where he left them. In the clearing.

"no..."

They stare at him, smiling the smile of hundred japanese men at a manga convention who've just noticed a hopelessly lost, lone, fourteen year old school girl.

"NO!"

He can hear them laughing. Pointing at the lass who thought she was a man. He can see the lust in their eyes. Hear their ridicule as he comes crawling back.

"NO!"

They've taken off their pants now. They're surrounding him, whistling. Hooting. A voice whispers by his ear, eerily familiar; "Bendoran, our love. We knew you would return".

His anger evaporates. It's hopeless. How can he break out from his fate? It's his destiny to be the love-slave of these horny garden gnomes. In his heart, he always knew that to be true. So why fight it?

Far away, as if in another world, a boot presses against his back. A voice, deep and hoarse breaks through into the dying embers of Ben's mind.

"I knew from the moment I saw you that you were a leprechaun bitch"

Everything comes rushing back. A tidal wave of hate and anger washes through him, drowning the vision of the clearing, of the leprechauns. All his anger, all that Ben is, runs inwards deep into his body to collect like a tiny, tiny sphere at the center of his chest. It burns with cold. It turns everything slow, bleak, dead. It grows ever smaller, ever more focused.

"NO!"

The sphere cracks open. Cold flows outwards, thundering out of his body like a whirlwind. The Duke is lifted of his feet and thrown against the wall with a thud. A look of surprise pulling the muscles of his face into that of a caricature. A shock-wave thunders outwards, bringing the sand of the arena floor with it in an ever expanding globe of dust. Green lighting cuts through the sand, leaving daggers of glass pointing in all directions. At first all sounds are drowned out by the roar of the wind, but slowly another grows, soon suppressing the wind altogether. It is laughter. High pitched and insane. It penetrates the ears of all that hears it, digging into the very primeval foundations of their brain. Soon men and women alike roll on the floor gibbering with terror, begging it to stop. But it will not.

The Duke gets on his feet, sharp eyes scanning the cloud for movement. Rocket launcher at the ready. A damn peculiar cloud too. It seems content to just hang around like a massive ball at the centre of the arena. Flashes of green can still be seen at its depth, but no more of the lightning thankfully. He fires a shot, but there seems to be no effect. Perhaps the guy died. He was pretty banged up after all. The Duke flexes his muscles. It's painful, fighting the Duke.

It takes a little while before he notices the throbbing. It's deep within his chest, reminding him briefly of a night club he once used to hang out at in LA. It's a hearth beat, but not his. No, with every thump the cloud contracts. At first it was hardly noticeable, but with each beat it gets smaller, until finally it's hardly bigger than a very short man. In a final contraction, the cloud seems to implode, only to explode outwards again in a wave of dust.

The Duke shades his eyes, letting the wind rustle through his hair and clothes. Around him screams echoes through the arena as spectators notice the mangled remains of those closest to the blast. The flesh has been stripped of their bones, leaving gleaming white skeletons behind. Duke Nukem ignores all this though. His focus is on the figure coming across the arena towards him. He can't see more than a silhouette as the figure is surrounded by a sphere of green energy. Lighting shoots out of it at random intervals, turning the sand into tiny paths of molten glass.
No matter. The Duke fires his rocket straight at the figure.

Too high - "Damn"

Ben Doran walks forwards, every pore of his body filled with energy. Massive muscles bulge against the now tight fabric of his velour shirt. A great mane of red hair flows down his back, twisting around like a thing alive. His forehead has grown too, becoming bigger, more powerful, making his Glasgow kiss even more fearful. No beard though. Not even now.

The sphere dissipates and is gone. The power sucked into a ball the size of a melon floating between Ben's palms.
"I'M NOT A BITCH"
He throws the crackling ball of condensed green energy straight at the Duke with a scream.
"I'M A SUPER LEPRECHAUN!"

---------- * ---------

[Jump Around]

Morgoth vs JA

Round 2 post 4

------------------§------------------

[Hugin & Munin]

Judges post

Morgoth Vs Jump around

[Sir Thursday]

Sir Thursday v Mentalist

Post 1 of 2.


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


Took a long time to recover after that match, for all of us. As much as anything, it was all the body-swapping that had been going on – sure made me uncomfortable, staring at myself and seeing someone else behind my eyes, not to mention the female body I was in and the ghost living in my head. And then there was the Sandstorm, who stood impassively in the body it had been fighting a few days before. It was the creepiest of all. You could see its…well I guess you’d have to call it skin, though it’s not really anything of the sort…moving as it messed around with its configuration. It had been booming on about how its form had not been used to its full potential, guess it was probably making some upgrades on Lippmer’s alcohol weakened body.

Lippmer himself was in my body, making up for lost time with his good friend, Mr. Bottle. Now don’t get me wrong, I can hold my drink – I’d been a professional barfly for quite some time, after all – but the amount he was putting away was going to kill my liver if he kept at it. I’d asked him to stop, and Catherine had told me to pass on that she thought it was stupid, but neither had helped. As I watched him drowning his sorrows, I came to the realisation that if I was ever going to get out of this with some of normality, I was going to have to get my body back somehow. Don’t get me wrong, being trapped in a woman’s body has a few upsides (looking at myself naked was fuuun!) but you can never quite shake the feeling that your body doesn’t fit in certain places. It’s kind of like wearing a shirt two sizes too small (well, really tight trousers might be a better analogy, if you know what I mean).

Having considered for some time, I decided the only way I was going to get back into my own body was to get the Sandstorm to do some more body jumping. But it wasn’t going to let go of its Lippmer body very easily. There was only one thing for it – we were going to have to help the Sandstorm find a better body before we could get it to put us all in the right forms again.

So I made some obvious suggestions (no point in deconstructing every time something came near – might as well just let it bounce off unless it was something potentially damaging; and if it was going to be swordfighting, it needed to hold onto its sword) which the Sandstorm seemed to accept – guess he must have wanted the next fight to be a little smoother than the last. He could handle the sword rather well now – in the brief periods when he was actually conscious, Lippmer’d mentioned that he had had some skills, guess they must have transferred.

Did a little research on our next opponent, and found out that he liked to play with fire. Frightened me a bit, ‘cause I had no idea what would happen to Sandstorm if it got burnt, but apparently it was no cause for concern: “This is no cause for concern.” Was what it said, nothing more. I’ll be damned if I knew what that meant. Figured I’d take a fire extinguisher with me just in case – got the weapons people to find me a weird kind of freeze-ray thing that they assured me could do the trick. Just had to point it at a fire and shoot, they said though I didn’t have a chance to try it out. As for Sandstorm, well it just went straight for its acid ball thingys again – didn’t really see the point, but it wasn’t going to argue. Guess it must have some kind of acid fetish. I did at least convince it to get them hardened against heat – didn’t want them exploding at the first sign of flames.
So eventually we were ready to go. Decided not to take Lippmer with us, ‘cause he was getting his drink on and Catherine said he’d just get in the way (I believe “He’ll do something stupid.” were her exact words – I was starting to notice a recurring theme in her vocabulary to describe her husband). I put on my firefighter’s outfit, (got to look the part!) slathered myself with some cream that was supposed to make my skin heatproof, (I did so enjoy rubbing it in) and we marched out into the arena, my uncomfortable female form side by side with Sandstorm Lippmer, who seemed to have rather more weight than when possessed by its original occupant.

The floor was made out of some kind of polished black stone – we were inside this time, too. The spectator seats seemed to stretch up as far as the eye could see, guess it was one of the bigger arenas. Across the arena stood our enemy – but I was confident. We were prepared, and we had ourselves set up to handle anything fiery he could throw at us. And while he looked pretty imposing, he didn’t seem like anything Sandstorm couldn’t handle. All I had to do was stay out of the way and there was no way I’d get hurt! Then he pulled out his gun.

This post has been edited by Sir Thursday: 03 May 2009 - 10:11 PM

[Mentalist]

Sir Thursday vs. Mentalist

Round 1 of 2, post 2 of 4

If there was one thing to be said about the ultimate Deathmatch, it was that they had some VERY thorough staff.

Oleh stretched in front of the gates, his back still slightly sore from the all the stitches that the Deathmatch’s doctors have left there, as they picked the glass shards from his back. His jacket was likewise re-stitched and looking like a die-hard communist who happened to find himself in the middle of an Andalusian bull-run.

"Well, they promised the crowd a battered war hero, and now they deliver".

Bahryanakrov's sardonic tone interjected the pre-fight concentration. The demon’s displeasure at being left out of this fight was evident.

"These body-shifting nanite colonies are highly unpleasant. They quickly adapt to mimic any strategy used against them, and they learn at near-exponential rate. It is folly to face one without me!"

'"And it would be even greater folly to let one learn from you", Oleh whispered. "Last thing I'd want is to have this thing learn how to use magic. Besides," he added, "you are not entirely out of the fight. The interaction rate is set at 35%, and you are responsible for keeping that thing out of me."

Bahryanakrov's response was inaudible, as Bury opened his eyes, and watched the executive who approached him, dragging an inconspicuous briefcase.

"Ah, Mr. Smith. I trust my request wasn't too difficult?"

Bury hated the man. Hated him for playing with the fates of numerous worlds, for gambling with the delicate Balance. But he didn’t allow his feeling to enter his voice, and the question was asked in a tone, devoid of any hint of amusement.

"Uh-". The executive dropped the suitcase, its heavy thud indicating that it must have weighed no less than a quintal. "N-no problem at all, Pan Bury. The blueprints you've provided were most helpful. Although the price for such urgent work made my superiors rather-"

"Excellent," Oleh cut him off, "how many did you get?"

"Twenty twenty-five round clips, as you've requested. Detonation timer is adjustable via remote, the activation is a psi-wave, as you’ve asked…though it was a challenge to get exclusive access to the frequency, you see, the Confederation of Greater Dark had purchased the rights-"

"But the frequency will be clear, correct?"

"Yes, Pan Bury." The execs clearly began to think that having Oleh in the game might prove to be a costly decision. He didn’t care. But it was important to throws the jackals a bone once in a while.

"Mr. Smith, need I remind you of the risk I am taking for you?"

"No, Pan Bury, not at all, I've just-"

"Your superiors complain now, but I would like you to assure them that the ratings from this fight will cover their expenses. Also, I make no claims to the Grand Prize. It will go to you, as well".

"Pan Bury, I am sure that the trivialities could be… dealt with, in light of this" the exec clearly couldn't believe what he just heard. The Grand prize would be enough to ensure his bosses’ dominance in Deathmatches for ages to come.

'Well, good. Now, if you don't mind, I must get ready".

"Ah, yes, of course. Best of luck, Pan Bury."

As the exec ran off, undoubtedly to report the happy news to his superiors, Oleh kneeled down in front of the case. Carefully, he opened it.

Inside, packed in numerous layers of heavy-duly shock absorbers, were twenty pistol clips.
Oleh calmly unholstered his gun, a custom-made, 65-caliber Sokil. It's familiar weight settled into his hand, as Oleh slid the first clip into the magazine.
Taking nine more clips, he carefully slid them in cases on his belt. The remaining ten, he marked with a single sigil, transferring the shock absorption, and threatening a million volt discharge to anyone who'd touch them without authorization.
Checking his dagger (just in case), Oleh entered the ring. Black stone, likely granite.

"They are afraid I'd melt another arena. Well, not this time."

Before the announcer finished, Oleh tossed the ten marked clips all over the arena.

"A circular pattern, about 30 meters between them. That should work"

Looking over at his opposition for the first time, Oleh saw them. The nanite colony was nesting in a body of a man, constantly shifting, just at the edge of perception, acid balls resting in each hand. Another human, a female, muscular-looking, despite the bulky firefighter's uniform with a fire extinguisher.

"Fire extinguisher? Well, seems the girl did her homework. Won't she be shocked"

"The girl has two souls. I don’ t suggest taking her lightly"

"Not to worry, I won't"


Oleh focused, putting on his sunglasses as he activated the tactical interface on the psi-wave frequency the execs have painfully secured for his exclusive use.

"Detonation timer- five seconds after impact"

Releasing the mental locks, Oleh nearly felt his pupils shrinking, as Bahryanakrov's assistance enhanced his vision and reaction. Lifting his gun, he sent the first bullet into the unsuspecting firefighter.

...The bullet hit Sam/Luke directly in the right hand He/they looked up startled at the bullet dent. "Hah!" Catherine nagged triumphantly, "Now aren't you glad I suggested you use the fibrosteel suit? Those bullets are... HEY, WHAT'S THAT?"

The last remark was concerning the odd whitish-blue vapour that quickly spread from the bullet, embedded in the glove.

"Cold… why is it so cold?" Sam/Luke thought in fascination as the vapour spread from the hand and up to the arm.

"Listen, Luke, TAKE OFF THAT SUIT NOW!!!" Catherine's voice was pure panic now.
"I… can't feel…"

Five seconds seemed a lifetime, as the weird gas made its way up to Sam/Luke’s elbow, before…

"Boom"

…Sam/Luke’s arm literally shattered, crumbling from within in an explosion of ice (?) pellets.
He/they crumbled down, clutching what remained of her /his right arm, the fire extinguisher forgotten.

Sandstorm turned to its opponent, acid vats in each hand, its companion forgotten. Lippmer’s body, after all the enhancements, responded quickly.

"My turn"

This post has been edited by Mentalist: 18 May 2009 - 09:39 PM