Tournament of Legends: The Battles of SRPC and co.

[Z0Rr0Rex]

Tournament of Legends, was a play by post roleplaying Tournament that takes place in GUA. Many Rpers from many different fora joined up in this most exquisite event. This is a silent museum of all the Battles our valiant members fought.

ROUND 1

ROUND 2

ROUND 3

under construction.

[Z0Rr0Rex]

Decretum Dei VS Agilema

Krystin
=======
Alchemy Shop
Written by Bw3nyrgna (Respect: Carnage)

Wooden shelves stacked twenty feet high held up the roof of this run down shop. Twenty feet tall, and ten feet long. These shelves imposed the room dramatically. While they are only a foot wide, they are placed to save space, three foot from each other. Along the shelves were various unmarked potions. Bottles were not uniform and neither were the colors within. Some potions were black, some were white, some were clear. Some were tied down, because they seemed to vibrate. Others simply had a collar as they floated gently to the top of the room. Two portals opened within sight of each other, as the shelves did not hinder view much, and the room darkened as the figure appeared.

“Akuard the Alchemist has generously donated his shop for this event.” He gestured to the room as he muttered under his breath, “Unfortunately we had to kill him to accept the donation,” the figure coughed up black gunk into his hands, which seemed to absorb into his figure. “We’ve removed the labels,” he gestured again, “but left the ingredients,” it was only than that one noticed on every few shelves were obscure plants and body parts from various animals. Bones of birds and human alike were strewn about without much consideration for purpose… or maybe the purpose is simply unknown. The executive began to exit before he looked at the interesting lines in the wood grain that somehow all interconnected in the floor boards, up into the shelves and mirrored on the ceiling. “Good artistry,” he muttered with a puff of smoke as the room brightened.

Soloist
=======
“Yeah, so that's how applied aerodynamics relates to eating toas—What the...?”

Zilden was interrupted mid-sentence holding an encyclopedia, explaining the finer points of how applied aerodynamics related to the act of eating toast (to put it succinctly: It didn't). It was painfully obvious that Zilden and Xlorion were no longer in the waiting room discussing flight and breakfast foods. Instead, the tournament executives had once again seen fit to teleport them into battle. Of course these people, whom Zilden had only encountered as bossy floating talking heads paid no mind to the fact that being teleported so suddenly and unexpectedly was rather like having someone rip out your insides without ever having breached your skin, only to carefully place your innards elsewhere and transport your skin back into it's proper place as an afterthought.

Zilden wanted to curse out loud, for he hated interruptions as much as anything, but his eyes were met with a glorious sight. Stacked far and high were potions, ingredients, mortars and pestles. Unwittingly perhaps, his tournament career began in what might be his strongest arena. Zilden couldn't help but sprout a wide grin. I might actually win this thing yet.

Zilden, despite his complete inability to remember things on command, could still recall instinctual feelings and reactions. This made him much stronger in fields like alchemy or cooking, where he could rely on his gut reaction from smells and tastes to discern information. More than that, however, he'd tended to his parents as they'd slid towards death, and knew by heart how to brew one particular concoction that might save his life. His parents afflicted much more gravely by the same mental instability that plagued Zilden, would never have spoken a sane word in their descent into madness and death, save one elixir that they'd managed to concoct that allowed them brief moments of lucidity.

Zilden had brewed it every day for four years, and down to the very bones in his fingers, he couldn't forget it, no matter how deeply he slipped into madness. Very curtly, he spoke:

“Xlorion, you stand, right here.”

He gestured firmly to the space in between the two shelves. It was evident that he intended Xlorion to be a barrier between Zilden and their opponents until he'd finished creating the elixir.

“Don't let them through for thirty seconds, and I guarantee you, I will show you power unlike anything you saw in the first round.”

Without any further instruction, Zilden quickly sidestepped to his left, disappearing behind the giant shelf of alchemical trinkets and ingredients. He worked with a concentration and swiftness that couldn't be found in any of his other pursuits. His hands nimbly grabbed leaves, bones and powders, and with one small sniff or taste, he knew they were right. He ground them furiously, (as if creating the potion would bring his parents back from the dead) in the nearest mortar and pestle he could find, reducing everything into a substance colored like gristle, but textured like a fine powder. It wasn't until now, after all of this desperate work that Zilden had forgotten two important things. Firstly, a key ingredient: water. He tried to compensate by spitting excessively into the bowl, but that only served to turn it into mush, and not into the liquid he needed. Secondly, and much more vitally, in his hurry, he'd forgotten to think ahead to the final step of crafting the elixir: letting it ferment for three days.

Zilden doubted very much that his opponents would be so polite as to sit patiently for seventy-two hours so that it might be a “fair fight” but he'd just guaranteed Xlorion he would be somewhat more productive than he had in their initial sparring match. He figured in couldn't hurt to take the potion, there was nothing potentially fatal in it, but it's effects were a complete crap shoot. Sighing, he whispered

“Here goes nothing.....”

and fingered some of the mush up into his mouth. He swallowed thickly, noting that the mush he'd ingested tasted nothing like the elixir it was supposed to be. He realized at this point that the thirty seconds he'd requested were long up. Scrambling to assist Xlorion, Zilden yanked his machete from it's sheath, then assumed the most intimidating battle stance he could muster (this was difficult, considering his mind was wandering onto the topic of upholstery) and boomed, with all the gusto his lungs possessed:

“Tread no further if you value your lives. For the next ten minutes I am a genius the likes of which you have never encountered. For the next ten minutes, my intellect is your doom.”

Certainly enough, Zilden's bravado would be his own doing. This had a lot to do with the fact that Zilden was not currently a genius of any sort. In fact, the elixir had done nothing to sharpen his mental focus, and he was as scatter brained as ever. He was however, glowing with a pleasant, iridescent shade of green.


Z0Rr0
=====
''...True Destiny awaits.'' the obscure individual motioned to his obscure partner...

He walked forward, his feet resounding on the hard, cold glass, each step vibrating with more purpose and meaning than the last, getting louder and louder, and nearing the pale light coming from the end of the dimensional tunnel.

The prophet breathed heavily as he neared the new arena, heart pace heightened, muscles tensed, cold sweat trickled down his forehead, and his veins pulsed at the surface of the skin of his arms as he forcefully tightened his grip on his staff.

He stalked out of the shadows, a dim flash of light soaring down his frame; no thicker than he was thin and adorned in plain white tatters, he posed as a pleasant saint.

Spatso's face contorted into a vast grin, anger and determination cascading down his expression, making the grin appear as the product of a frozen face muscle rather than that of a happy disposition...

'' Perfect...''

Dark disheveled hair overlapped his forehead and eyes like strands of a starless midnight, two fiery slates flickering behind the obsidian strands like caged beasts, scrutinizing everything before them...

A sweet smell of decay filled the dimly lit room, a few dying torches cast long shadows that danced along with the moving flames, revealing shelf after shelf of bizarre bottles, filled with an assortment of the rarest of concoctions and the most abominable of ingredients.

Abruptly near indistinct moans filled the room...

“Tread no further if you value your lives. For the next ten minutes I am a genius the likes of which you have never encountered. For the next ten minutes, my intellect is your doom.”

The tattered man furrowed his brow, clenched his teeth and slammed his fist together. He forcefully rammed his staff against the floor and a loud airy voice sounded about...

''Your divine judgement is near, fiends of darkness...''

Xlorion
=======
Xlorion listened to what Zilden said with a furrowed brow of confusion, why in the hell is he trying to explain such a thing to me? At the same moment that Zilden tried to finish his sentence, changing it to “What the…?” he looked up sharply, feeling the pull of his body from it’s current position and into the new battle arena.

Xlorion knew the feeling of transportation via portals, and thusly was not as disgusted by it as his partner, though once in the room his face twisted into a scowl before hearing Zilden’s words. The words sounded convincing, filled with such confidence that the anthro felt no reason not to trust them.

Nodding he moved forward to the space that his partner had pointed to, drawing his blade and holding it at the ready as he watched their opponents patiently and hoping he wouldn’t have to fight them before the woodsman finished whatever it was he was doing.

Yellow eyes narrowed at the first man across the room as he grinned and spoke a single word, perfect? How is this perfect, there is no space to fight…? But then again… The beast grinned and turned to look at his partner as he spoke, who's body had apparently taken on a shade of green. His partner’s confidence seemed to have grown even more and this gave Xlorion more hope for the fight at hand.

“How many of these potion’s and concoctions can you use? Let me know quickly, for I may want to find out how many of them are flammable.”

His words were meant to be quiet, though the room seemed to amplify them, not that it mattered.

Looking back to his opponents he awaited the response, still holding his blade defensively, ready to defend against whatever may be the first attack.

Darkstrike
==========
Sensing it before it happened; she stood with an easy grace, a grace that befitted royalty. A majestic sweep that ruffled her dress lightly despite the dead air gave a sense regality and power. She was confident in her abilities, of that there was little doubt. Boasting an impressive entourage of powers, Tala was hardly a typical girl and with her flirtatious and nebulous manner, she did not fall into a stereotypical heroine category. Her long pink hair seemed to float, sweeping out behind her in a cascade of light magenta. A fragrance drifted along with her in a seemingly careless manner that smelled of light honey and fresh rain.

She rolled her eyes in anticipation for the uncomfortable feeling that came next. Feeling as though she had been hooked somewhere behind her midriff, an odd sensation as though on were being pulled through a narrow piece of tubing occurred. Grimacing she recognized the type of teleportation that was being used. It was known as Plane Squeezing and various other people had discovered it. Each of these brilliant minds believed they had discovered something new in their vanity, and thus, several other names had been recorded in the annals of time.

This sensation lasted for perhaps a split second, and then with a feeling of being blown up like a balloon, she expanded into existence very fast giving the appearance of simply "appearing." No matter how many times I've gone through that, she thought, I will never get used to it.

Feeling slightly disoriented, she gave her head a small shake to clear her thoughts. Without wasting any time she peered about the room with an odd expression that burrowed itself into her face. This expression etched some odd furrows along her normally smooth face, especially along her brow, that would have triggered an onslaught of laughter to the immature. To the wise, however, it would have revealed a startling wisdom, the type of wisdom that only comes with age, and one would be forced to reassess their initial guesses to her age.

The room and its occupants already seemed ready to engage in combat. Spats was already there, holding his staff in a rather comical, yet effective, stance, ready to ward any blows to his body. Across the room, past endless rows of shelves with odd looking chemicals. Two odd beings stood, one with a machete, and the other with a normal blade. The one holding a normal sword was somewhat of a remarkable creature, and in honesty, Tala was not too sure what exactly it was. The one with a machete, a boy, or at least she thought it was a boy was glowing a rather...nasty shade of slime green.

The room was too tight and enclosing, Tala would never be able to fight in here. To fight truly, she needed her wings to be on display, but thus far she had been traveling as an ordinary girl. There was only three feet in between the edge of a shelf to its twin on the other side of the room. She looked up and estimated a good twenty to twenty five feet to the ceiling, but with no room to even spread her wings, Tala knew that she was in trouble.

As always though, plans quickly began to form in her mind, and suddenly one with dangerous possibilities entered her head. She walked up behind her companion and whispered, her lips hardly moving, "Can you protect yourself from a tremendous explosion, including debris, and poisonous substances, including gases." If he were to look into her eyes, he would have seen a dangerous glint enter her eyes.

"I have a simple spell that will hopefully cause all of the substances to violently react, which will open the space up for us to fight. Can you handle that tall order?" She spoke, and a hint of malevolence entered her voice never once taking her eyes off the two opponents down at the far end. She knew that time was ticking fast and that the beast and the boy glowing an evil green would not wait forever.

The seconds began to tick faster as the heat of battle crept upon them, preying on their inattentive souls.

Soloist
=======
Zilden didn't bother to turn to face Xlorion to answer the question. He was already painfully aware that he didn't know the answer. He tried not to make it obvious that the elixir had taken no effect save to make him an extremely well illuminated target. All the same, he began to estimate the number of potions in the room, taking rough guesses at how many potions were on a shelf, and then extrapolating by how many shelves filled the room. After a moment's concentration, consideration, and calculation Zilden carefully pulled an arbitrary number right out of his ass.

“117 of these concoctions are flammable. And there's at least one on each shelf. I haven't determined how they're sorted yet. As for the ones I can use...”

There was a palpable pause as Zilden tried to come up with another bullshit answer, but fortunately for him, it was sitting on the floor in front of him. The encyclopedia he'd been using as a reference to applied aerodynamics (Labeled “A-Appralius”) had fallen to the floor on it's spine, initially abandoned by it's owner. As it hit the ground however, the pages had fluttered over, revealing the page that discussed alchemy. Zilden's eyes were drawn to this particular passage:


Quote:
Originally Posted by Ellamarie Langley's Encyclopedia to Everything: Vol I.
...Alchemy, though commonly used to brew substances used in medicines, magic, metallurgy, poisons, cooking and even art, was originally created in the pursuit of one of two goals. First, was the transmutation of metals, ideally turning mundane metals into gold. Second, the achievement of eternal life via an elixir or something commonly referred to as “The Philosopher's Stone”. In the latter, no known alchemist has met with success, but in the former there are a few known alchemists that have transmuted metals into gold. See...


Across from the passage was an illustration of a man pouring a liquid onto a metallic sheet, which was captioned “Akuard the Alchemist successfully transmutes lead into gold.” Zilden's heart leapt, he recognized the name as the one that owned this shop. He knew which concoction he could use.

“I can use exactly one of these substances. I have an idea. You take the hobo with a stick, I'm going after the pretty one.”

When he'd scanned the room counting potions, Zilden had taken special care to examine his opponents. He'd gleaned very little note-worthy information, but the one piece of info he did have was the basis for his battle strategy. He couldn't help but notice the mechanical gadget attached to the female's arm, and he was fairly certain it was her weapon. He appreciated it for the fine piece of engineering it was, but also recognized that he would be less fond of it when said piece of engineering was piercing his favorite organs.

Without waiting for Xlorion's answer, Zilden sprinted forward, bringing his blade to bear with his left arm, and furtively snatching an amber liquid contained in a small crystal vial from the third shelf on his right with his with his other arm. It wouldn't be until many years later that historians discerned that at that exact moment Zilden had sent a mental prayer skyward, beseeching help from gods he didn't actually believe in, but these same historians also regarded him as a genius, which showed how much they knew. One desperate prayer and four sprinting steps later Zilden made one crosswise cut with his machete, aimed for the neck. He'd hoped a freshly sharpened machete was enough of a threat to draw the girl's attention from his right hand, clenching the small crystal vial, and waiting to smash it open and spill it's amber contents.


Xlorion
=======
Xlorion nodded at the number that was told to him, it seemed pretty accurate though at the same time he wasn’t sure how he would be able to recognize that without the labels on the bottles.

Not sure why he would want to take her on…she obviously seems the more competent but….

Before he could finish the thought Zilden was running forward and he was given no choice in the matter and due to that he bailed on his original plan of lighting the room on fire and testing the flammable liquids within it.

With that thought he ran forward, drawing a dagger from his left side and raising his blade into the air, keeping it out of the way of the multiple shelves within the room. As Zilden suggested he moved towards the hobo with a stick, bringing the blade down in a vertical attack while ready to defend with the dagger.

Z0Rr0
=====
''Can you protect yourself from a tremendous explosion... poisonous gases... all the substances to violently react...?''

Her subtle words crept into his ears like a foul poison, reeking of destruction, despair and death. The prophet's pose never shifted as the critical question hung still in the air ''Can you handle it?''. Three seconds of agonizing silence passed, and then sounded the sigh of a corpse...Spatso's laughter of demented excitement.

His gaze was turned with extreme interest towards the imminent threat. The two obscure warriors rushed forward, holding blades in their hands, pouncing out of the darkness like hungry cats.

The prophet watched calmly, boring into the eyes of the oncoming fiend in silent challenge. It was as though raging dragons roared and thundered within, yet he remained as placid as the surface of a frozen lake, waiting for the right time.

Sluggishly slithering down his arm, energy poured into the man's left palm like luminous tears. Abruptly, he bolted his arm forward and the tears erupted into a massive effervescent flare. Followed by the hissing sound of magical discharge the scorching shaft of fire welcomed the fiendish rogue to its fervent, fiery embrace...

''The Laird has said: Only the ones who suffer remember me, so suffer and pray to the Laird for your salvation...demon. '' The messenger of the Laird had spoken.


Darkstrike
==========
Spatso never answered and this irritated Tala. She felt the need to open the room up; it was so confining, so close. A feeling of being trapped crept over her. Angels needed to be free and in open space. As light travels in waves, a feeling washed over her, a sensation vulnerability and weakness swept across her. It broke upon her heart like a wave against a stone, slowly, ever so slowly wearing it away. Tala had no idea how long she would be able to last without her wings.

Reverting her attention to their opponents, something struck her as wrong, for the beast was there but...where had the green kid gone? Tensing she listened to her surroundings trying to detect where he might of gone, expecting a surprise attack. A surprise never came though. The radioactive-looking boy reappeared from behind a shelf, his arms tensed. Now a normal being might have dismissed such an occurrence with barely a thought, but as he ran towards her, covering the seemingly vast distance, she understood what had happened.

The boy had grabbed something from the shelf.

This was not an appealing thought. For all she knew, the boy held some potion that had the explosive power of an atom bomb, (a weapon that had been created by Earthlings, her people in fact) which could, in essence, blow a rather unnecessarily large chunk of earth into ashes. Bracing herself, as the distance between her and him rapidly dwindled to nothing, she formulated a new plan.

It came to her quite suddenly; in fact, the thought seemed to have been placed there since she hadn't even been thinking along those lines. And as she began to charge up energy, time slowed to a crawl. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Spats release a rather large shaft of fire, seeking to with a rather vengeful nature to scorch the beast-like thing. Time was nothing now.

The energy came unto her body, charging it with an almost holy nature, energizing her. Then something odd came to her, enforcing her belief that someone had helped her. Her vision flashed white and she saw him...

His eyes were a flame red, and he carried himself with pride and dignity. He was in all points, a knight out of myths. Proud, hinting of arrogance, an irresistible charm, and a sense of power. He was an angel like her, but his wings were a flame red as was his hair. His features were hawk-like, bold and daring, though not in an unpleasant manner. She saw him and her heart filled with love, for that was all it could be called. It was a burning sensation that started in her heart, making the aforementioned organ flutter like the wings of a butterfly, and spread to all parts of her body. It filled the void where her loneliness had been and she felt rejuvenated.

"Kotahn," she whispered with an almost lilting manner.

He nodded and smiled. A blazing hot smile that rivaled the heat of Hell, but with the warmth and gentleness that came with the better side of fire, its caressing nature. Feeling this heat wash over her, she also felt him lend her his strength.

"There may be no way for you to use your wings, but I shall take their place for the remainder of this fight," His voice was low and husky and seemed distant, as though this spirit, or whatever it was, was reaching across a great void.

"What about your sister Talik?" she asked and noted the same distant sounding quality. His reply was a shrug. The he stopped and lapsed into thought. When he returned from the obscure and far reaches of his mind his answer was simple.

"You are the one who needs me now, she is fine. Now focus, your enemy draws near, I would not be the death of you. Return now to where you belong."

And she did.

She rushed back to her physical state of being, just as the energy reached its pinnacle. Tala released the energy down into the ground at a steep forty-five degree angle. The force and the sheer amount of energy that went into the ground caused the tectonic plates beneath her feet to buckle and then under a great deal of pressure they broke in an odd manner.

Snapping like a stiff board of wood, the plate jutted upwards with a jagged edge and burst out of the ground, through the concrete floor, with a shattering crack, right in front of her at another forty-five degree angle. This time though, the rock was aimed at the boy's chest, hopefully preventing him from even coming into reach with her.

He did not look the athletic type, and the spike-like sheet of rock divided them seeking to impale its unwary foe. Tala was pleased, and sent a silent prayer to her love, Thank you Kotahn.


Xlorion
=======
His eyes matched his opponents as though he had often taken challenges in such a way and knew how to accept them by simply staring back. Despite the look of rage and absolute recklessness, he was in complete control and knew how to react to most kinds of magic and Xlorion could sense the magic that was building within the man before him.

His focus remained on his own attack, hoping to successfully impale his opponent before the attack was launched at him. His yellow eyes left his opponents and fell down to the man’s hand, noting the pouring energy moments before the arm bolted forward, launching the fire magic at him.

Fire magic! I couldn’t have hoped for anything better.

His mind raced through a few ideas and he found himself laughing as he simply continued his charge straight into the flames. His sword dropped slightly and his laugh intensified, echoing through the shop even over the roar of the flames.

If time were to be slowed down over the next few seconds one would see the blade glow for a moment before releasing a red light into the air around Xlorion. The fire would slowly meld into the light as though it was some sort of shield.

To any watching the fight the fire would seem to simply wink out of existence, Xlorion’s blade taking on an orange colored glow within the blade as it contained the magic.

His charge continued and he raised the blade to strike once more, hoping that the magic having seemed to disappear would catch his opponent by complete surprise and thusly have him in no position to defend.

At this time he had forgotten about the other two combatants, forgotten that he was involved in a tournament and that there was another opponent as well as one whom was his partner. Completely involved in the thrill of a fight against one who could quite give him a challenge.

The shaking of the ground through him off balance for a moment and he cursed, suddenly being reminded (rather rudely) that others were fighting on the same ground. Refusing to relent in his attack he moved the next few feet as quickly as possible, thrusting his blade towards the gut of Laird.

Soloist
=======
It was incredibly lucky for Zilden that his opponent had assumed him to be a lazy, slow, sort of man. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that his ill fitting clothes did nothing to reveal his lean muscular build underneath, but as slow of mind as Zilden was, he wasn't slow of feet. Quite to the contrary, Zilden was very lithe and athletic, as much of his work was incredibly dangerous. Things had a nasty habit of exploding or emitting clouds of poisonous gas or generally doing things hazardous to his health. Combined with his experiences with traps in ancient ruins ranging from arrows shooting from the walls to floors not designed to give way into pits of spikes (Zilden was always very curious as to why ancient peoples guarded their knowledge and treasures so jealously. They were dead for heaven's sake), he'd developed lightning reflexes to avoid loss of his favorite limbs, or poisons to his favorite organs.

When the girl bent the earth to her will, forcing an unwilling pillar of rock into Zilden's way, he reacted reflexively, dropping to his knees, and sliding towards the flat portion of the revealed plate. Not wanting to abandon his original plan, Zilden threw his right arm up in a wide arc, releasing the tiny fragile bottle of potion he'd snatched on his rush in. He watched it sail through the air for a moment but his view was obstructed by the rocky peak he was sliding towards. He merely had to hope that the vial smashed open upon the girl's weapon. He could only hope that it took her weapon out of the fight. He did nothing but hope that it successfully transmuted the weapon from it's durable form into the much more malleable gold.

Key words of course being: He did nothing. Zilden had forgotten to brace for impact, and slid rather forcefully into the plate of earth. He had avoided impaling himself on the spike aimed at his chest, but the magnitude of the impact was such that he dropped his machete and bounced off the rock and into the nearest shelf, causing a large bulbous container of periwinkle blue liquid to topple from it's resting place down onto Zilden's head. He shook his head zealously, clearing the disorientation, and brushed the glass fragments from his hair before making to stand. Unfortunately for Zilden, he'd also forgotten that his luck fluctuated according to some unseen law similar to gravity. Namely, when it went up enough to avoid a brush with death like that, it came plummeting down in a spectacular manner.

When Zilden finally found his way to his feet, he spent all of an instant on his feet before losing his balance and unceremoniously tumbling back onto his ass. He became aware that he felt heavier somehow, and that his center of gravity had shifted somewhat, making even simple tasks like standing and walking strange and alien challenges. When he looked down at his body to investigate, the answer was hard to miss. The potion that had toppled onto his head was a trans-gender potion. Since he had not ingested it directly, it hadn't taken it's full effect, so he still sported what was frequently referred to as his “wing-dang-doodle” but he had also sprouted a pair of breasts. Zilden saw that they were quite magnificent, curvy and supple, but they were also unbearably awkward.

The sentient personality in his brain chimed in with a tale about something called “Manifest Breastiny”. A story of how breasts were originally territory belonging to males, before being forcibly annexed by females some eons ago, which explained why men were fascinated with them to this day. The little voice continued on to say that Zilden should be proud; he'd finally taken back what was rightfully his. Zilden couldn't help but chuckle.

“If you're done admiring my new chesticles, we are in the middle of a battle to the death.”

Breasticles would've been better.

His brain quipped. Zilden laughed again. To the casual observer, it truly appeared as though Zilden Mertichard was losing his mind. Even to the dedicated observer it might seem that way, but the truth of the matter was that he was having an incredibly good time. In that moment, however, Zilden found something extraordinary. The amicable conversation with the being residing in his mind made the two unified enough that Zilden, despite appearing completely “bat shit fucking insane”, was for the first time in many years, sane enough to think straight. It was as an entire ocean of knowledge came rushing back into his head and he suddenly found he recognized every substance in the room, merely by examination.

Zilden couldn't rise to his feet again for fear of falling down once more, but he did see two tiny bottles in special holdings within reach. Zilden took special care not to jar the bottles too violently, being all too aware what would happen. The two bottles were held in place by a series of springs to minimize the amount of kinetic energy that got transferred to their contents because they contained nitroglycerin. Any impact and they would explode in a magnificent miniature plumes of fire, obliterating everything caught within. Zilden tossed the first at the the plate of earth that had jutted forth from the ground. It was obstructing an already constricted battlefield, and Zilden was less than fond of it. He nimbly tossed the second at the girl that had summoned said wall of rock.

Running into that spike was rather like being broadsided with a freight train, which is to say, it hurt a lot. Zilden was going to make certain that the girl paid for that, and paid for it dearly. It was right as the first bottle erupted into an explosion that Zilden remembered he'd left his machete behind, sitting under the plate of earth he'd just destroyed. Unwittingly, he and his brain had the same reaction: Fuck me...


Z0Rr0
=====
With a rumble and a clang, the floor quaked beneath the prophet's feet. He impulsively maintained a poised stance, by grappling tightly onto his stick...

The shelves shivered violently, dropping their valueble merchendise down the hard stone floor. Phial after phial crackled and smashed, spattering about small pieces of jagged glass. Liquids of red, green, and gold washed the floor as they swelled, and flamed in an intermingling of odours, flavours, and properties, producing a thick indigo smoke that slothfully spread its tendrils through the old shop.

''Thud''

Wood barked against metal as the fiend's foul blade met Spatso's sturdy oaken staff, blocking the oncoming slash. The first glimmers of fear danced about the prophet's eyes, as the obscure man came face to face with his draconic adversary.

He was the excrement of hell, a gargoyle brought to life. The beast's face was a hideous mask of infinite hatred, twisted into an immense grin that revealed row after row of razor sharp teeth, washed with the crimson of many and giving off the stench of death.

His eyes produced a vivid vermilion glow, radiating a deep sense of unease. Blurred human faces appeared to form within the deep vermilion, expressions of extreme pain and horror flickering momentarily then vanishing.

Jagged bones jutted out of dark skin that could match the finest embroidery, yet was as touch as chainmail, two taloned wings flattered about with mediocre grace adding to the whole hellish look. This beast was borne to bring bane upon the weak...

A pale yellow glow appeared to lovingly enshroud the prophet's palm as a rather audible whisper traveled to the fiend's ears.

''Surrender, or die...''

Darkstrike
==========
Distracted by the beast crashing through the pillar of flames, Tala saw his blade crash into Spats' staff. An odd screeching sound that seemed to be distinctly related to nails being drawn across a chalkboard ensued. Grimacing she watched as his palm began to glow an odd golden light...just as something went whistling past her ear. Unlady-like thoughts filled her mind as she turned to see what had happened to the radioactive boy.

First thing she noticed was the machete lying beneath the newly man-made spike of rock with no boy holding onto it. That surprised her, Why would he let go of his weapon? That was the all she had time to think about because of a tremendous explosion, followed by another shortly thereafter.

The explosions predictably caused Tala to be thrown backwards, landing on her back at a shallow which caused her to slide painfully across the floor for a mere foot and a half before she let the momentum carry her while lifting her legs up into the air. The end result was a backwards tumble that brought her to her feet. Sliding back a few more feet in a classical ninjitsu stance--the fingertips of her left hand on the ground while the rest of the body was crouched down in a position similar to a football player—she raised her right arm out, the arm with her weapon attached to it, and clenched her fist.

This simple movement triggered a rather remarkable affect of mechanical ingenuity. The magenta, green, red sheets of metal attached to her arm began to ‘whir’ as hidden gears began to move the puzzle pieces together forming a blade. As though it were some living creation, it began to buzz with and pulse with small blue electric bolts. Skystreak, was a futuristic blade, that strapped itself around her hand, engulfing it entirely, giving new meaning to what a blade master meant when he would say: “The blade should be like an extension of your arm.”

The blade itself was made of an alloy that was extremely light, almost no heavier that her own arm. The end all effect made the blade invaluable, with the only downside being, that sometimes she forgot its length and misgauged the amount of swinging room she had and hindered her slightly when performing any sort of acrobatic move.

Smoke billowed about, and rubble lay strewn around the room. A dull pain caused her back to throb. Standing up straight and reaching behind her back with her free hand, she patted her lower back. A damp sensation could be felt beneath the folds of her dress, and Tala knew she had sustained a substantial brush burn. Anger blossomed into her heart, a dangerous type of anger, a fit of dry rage.

It is this type of anger that gives man and woman to step beyond their character, their personality and commit acts of which one who knows the person would never suspect to come from them. Anger in this state generally causes a relatively good man to commit murder. It was this type of rage that boiled slowly into her veins like a malevolent poison, pulsing within her veins to its own beat.

She needed her wings, even with Kotahn watching over her. A thought flashed across her mind to open up the arena in which she and Spats were locked within. How to do it without harming Spats was the real question. Contemplating her options quickly, again, time slowed to her perceptions and another face appeared before her as she recalled something told to her by a powerful celestial being known as Striker…

”Relax,” he had said, his cold luminescent and lantern-like white eyes observed her fruitless efforts. He was tall and humanoid in shape, lacking any distinguishable features upon his midnight black, with purple tints, body. Six feathery and almost ‘fluffy’ raven’s wings tensed and relaxed almost imperceptibly. A slash of red and blue each crisscrossed across his chest forming the unique “X” that marked him for who he was. Standing with his chest puffed out with a sense of majesty, yet appeared to be remarkably at ease.

The Temple of Light’s Bane, in all of its dark beauty glimmered lightly in a hazy focus around her. A source of the dark energy that created the apparent ‘nothing’ that many beings called shadows, here a dark mage was at his greatest potential while a light mage was reduced to nothing.

“I can’t-” she remembered mumbling.

“Yes you can,” he cut her off. “Remember what I have taught you; the three basic steps to summoning shadows to do your bidding. Assimilate; become the shadow. Know it. Love it. Let yourself be seduced by it. Next, Focus. Focus on what you wish to achieve. Perhaps you wish to impale you foe upon a blade of the inherent ‘nothing’ proving that shadows are indeed something to behold. Or maybe, perhaps you wish to remove objects out of your way by transporting them to the Dark Realm. In order to do the latter, merely focus on having the shadows pick the item up.

“Lastly, Force of Will. Force the shadows to do your wishes, a Dark Mage may be lovers with shadows, but you must be the one with control.” He smiled which was nothing more than a ghost of a smile, a bare upturning of the lips, and added, “Its why dark mages do not make good relationship holders, but I think your teachings with other elements will counteract my teachings and allow you to have a very successful relationship.”

Tala laughed at her teacher’s odd and rather dry remark…

Even this happy memory could not deter her from her goal. She delved for her warm a beating heart, searching for the cold core that made up every heart. After a mere second, she found it, a chilling black center, full of sorrow and despair. Brushing aside the feelings left her with nothing. She sank into this nothing and found herself among the shadows of the room. Dancing along the walls, toying with the light that the braziers gave off, and everywhere else, merely hiding, she called to them.

And they answered with prompt and dignified silence that was receptive to her attempts. Steadying her concentration, Tala began to focus on transporting the shelves on the left side of the room, her left, on being removed into the Dark Realm. With an excited grace, the shadows among the walls and floor began to gather themselves beneath great oaken shelves. Gathering, converging, they became several great black masses upon the floor. All of this taking place within three seconds, the final step arrived, the moment of truth.

The point in which she had always failed when performing her dark spells, anxiety entered her mind. Taking a deep steadying breath she brushed the feeling aside and reached out her thoughts, forcing a dull iron to enter her mental voice. Do it now.

The masses upon the floor erupted upwards, touching nothing until they engulfed the bookshelves like some gigantic trap, looking a great deal like the blooming and withering of a line of lotus flowers. Then with a sense of finality, the oak shelves that had adorned the left side of the room sank into the floor and were gone.

Tala gasped as though she had held her breath for several minutes. As far as she knew, she may very well have held her breath. But that was past and done. A minor sense of exhaustion entered her mind from such an exertion. A normally draining spell, as an angel, she was gifted with greater endurance than a mere human. Now she walked with a slow purpose towards the center of the room, slow and graceful, bypassing the now transsexual boy and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name…” Chanting in a low melodic voice, a golden light began to fizzle around her, enveloping her in a soft hue of honey.

“…Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, On earth as it is in heaven.” Her pace increased, and a golden light, matching that which surrounding her appeared at the center of the floor, shining from the dark ceiling in which there was no source.

This continued while silence encased her, all until she reached the end, “But deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.”

“Amen.” Her foot entered the circle of light that shone down into the room, and silence, complete and pure took its due. Her still form, now completely encased in the two hues of gold began to rise off the floor, spinning her gracefully. Her pink hair twirled around her as though caught in a gentle whirlwind. Then with a climax that seemed to add a sense of power and might to the currently peaceful display of lights and miracles, six white wings burst from her back.

They were large and of a pure baby powder white. Encased in a metal that matched Skystreak’s colors, her wing joints appeared to be very well protected. The metal itself was filled with joints allowing an incredible freedom of movement. Still floating within the golden portal, she stared at her opponent’s squarely and said in a commanding voice, “Behold, for I am a messenger of the Lord, one of the Seraph. I am Tala, know my name, and fear it, for thy judgment is upon thee.”

Xlorion
=======
Xlorion was mildly surprised when he heard the thud of his blade against the staff of his opponent, though the fear in his opponent’s eyes was enough to gain a smile from the beast. Rows of teeth showed their points as he raised his lips away from them.

Knowing that the man before him thought him a being of evil, which at one point he had very well been, he would need to use that to his advantage.

Thoughts ran though his mind in rapid succession as to what had occurred thus far in the battle and Xlorion realized that this man depended greatly on his magic. That would have to be his downfall. Leaping back a step from the prophet he spotted the yellow glow in his palm, his lips curled up even further and he laughed aloud as he heard the man’s words.

Quote:
''Surrender, or die...''


“You know nothing about me, you know nothing about my past, what right do you have to pass any sort of judgement on a creation of hell?”

In all hopes the claim would startle the manipulation of magic that the man had begun. Xlorion closed his eyes for half a second before charging forth once more, his grip tight upon his blade as he waited for the magic to be released at him.

During this time Xlorion had once more lost sight of the other battle going on in the room. He took no notice of the rows of shelving disappearing opposite to him and his opponent. No notice of the golden light that had entered the room or the ‘angel’ that now stood within that light. A single thought continued to run through his mind.

“The sooner I dispatch this bumbling idiot, the sooner we can finish this fight and move on.”

Soloist
=======
Zilden ought to have felt very guilty at that particular moment. Of course, he didn't, but any good man would man would have felt shame about feeling some emotionless when such grand display of golden light and holy magic unfolded before him. It wasn't exactly his fault that he had such a lackluster emotional response, but all the same, any normal man would've been awestruck. And any man that wasn't awestruck would feel guilty that something so grand didn't strike him with awe. That's where Zilden should've fallen on the spectrum of emotions, but alas, things just weren't turning his way.

It started with the doddering old wizard. In a flash, he'd destroyed every substance, every chemical, and every precious resource in the room. Initially Zilden wanted to be angry, but the result of mixing so many different and often volatile concoctions was a massive indigo cloud which deigned fit to hover right over poor Zilden's head. His lungs were instantly filled with a plethora of poisons, explosives, counter-agents to said poisons and explosives, counter-agents to the counter-agents, and so on so forth. The end result wasn't particularly destructive to Zilden's health, mostly just lots of chemicals having it out in his innards then spewing themselves out on the winds of the coughing fits Zilden was now subject to, but two of the aforementioned counter-agents were designed to nullify the effects of both potions he was under the effects of before the explosion.

His magnificent breasts vanished into nothingness, returning Zilden's normal pectorals. His green glow even subsided quite nicely, revealing that he was not, in fact, a hideous swamp monster. Unbeknownst to Zilden, however, the failed brew he'd crafted that had made him green was also maintaining the link between him and the sentient being in his brain. When cured of this “affliction” everything he'd suddenly remembered, he forgot with an equal suddenness. This unstable reversion to Zilden's original state caused him to grip at his head fiercely, retching as the peace he'd found returned to turmoil. He braced himself against one of the sturdy oak shelves trying desperately to make his newfound headache subside, but this too, turned out to be a mistake.

After a moment of silence that coincided with Zilden's thrashing, the girl he'd tried to bull rush moments ago blinked the shelves Zilden was leaning upon out of existence, engulfing them in shadow. Zilden's head fell unceremoniously to the ground, bouncing with a dull sickening thud off the solid concrete. His brain would've instructed him to feel pain, but it couldn't. The pain in his head and lungs, combined with the sudden loss of so much knowledge that he'd only just remembered, caused a sensory overload that Zilden's nervous system couldn't handle. Thus, in an effort to preserve Zilden's life, for exactly two picoseconds, all electrical activity in his body ceased. For all intents and purposes he was dead for these two picoseconds, but there was memory enough (with some unseen help from the brain being) that he wasn't supposed to die so much as restart.

The problem was when Zilden's brain did reboot, it wasn't fully functional for several moments. He laid witness to Tala going through some holy prayer and sprouting grand wings among showers of golden light and it had no emotional impact whatsoever. Zilden literally had no idea what was going on. His short term memory eluded him and for the life of him, he couldn't remember why he was here, who all the people around him were, or why they all seemed so violently angry.

Zilden pushed himself to his feet, but couldn't quite shake the fog from his mind that put him in a strange place with strange people fighting for no apparent reason. And then his first memory struck. A black anthromorph, a draconic one, was kicking him in the face, and it hurt. A lot. He saw that same draconic figure locked into combat with a wizard whom Zilden thought looked rather like a silly hobo, and everything clicked into place. So I was fighting this dragon man and I couldn't win, so I enlisted help....of course!

Zilden might not have been the strongest fighter in the world, but he was embarrassed for sitting and being useless just because he'd had a brief flash of amnesia. Determined to help, Zilden set his feet, lowered his head, and charged straight at his partner.


Decretum Dei advanced to the next Round

[Z0Rr0Rex]

Poster Children for Abortion vs Dreams of the Unworthy

Krystin
=======
Broncs and Blood, Steers and Mud
Written by Andanin

The two teams found themselves at the opposite ends of a 20 x 40m rodeo ring, the soft bulldust expanse stretched out between the white poles that formed the fences of the arena, a rectangle of ochre loose ochre dirt, dented in places by the passage of heavy creatures and sudden movement. Animalistic bellowing and snorting rings about the area, the shouts of men mingling with the smell of fear and anger of the larger beasts that they tried to handle. The fences rattled as a large brindle bull was forced into the chute, the strapping put into place as it tossed its long horned head about. Behind the chute, a maze-like network of cattle and equine filled chutes and yards stretched out for at least 30 meters at the same width as the ring, crawling with men in jeans, chaps and cowboy hats, the ground and fences littered with cattle prods, loose horse shoes, lengths of rope, and various other tools of the rodeo trade

A loud clang, and the pen chute flung open, launching beast and rider into the ring, dust rising into the air as the bellowing and yelling increased, before an unnatural hush fell over the area, as it the sound had been turned down, though the action continued. “Welcome to your next arena,” the voice was made the very air vibrate, as if it were bouncing from the particles of orange dust. “Perhaps you are familiar with the struggle between man and beast that has been raging for as long as sentient species have sought to tame those not. Now, you shall be forced to undergo a similar struggle. Only one team will win, the other shall be broken. Which of you will advance? Begin.”

Paramnesia
==========
Whispers of Failing Reality

Muttering maddeningly, I am ripped into a new arena as idiotic as the last. I find myself one again confused, beside me is the man in pink but to my opposite side stands yet another figure… “Three of us again..?” My eyesight fluttered against reality as the figure blinked in and out of existence. What the hell? The man was behind an obsidian mask, and his other features were to vague and flickered to quickly to make out effectively. I couldn’t see his face but somehow I felt his mouth open and his strength slam into my soul itself – the man spoke with a purpose to me…

“Judo… What do you fear?”
Visions of the orphanage burning to the ground filled my head,
“JUDO JAFRE! What do you fear…?”
My god filled every pore of my being as water fell from the sky and spewed from my fingertips into the depths. Shocked as I was, I saw my hands guiding the spiraling water as my anger rose at the fools who would burn the innocent…
“What is it that you fear…”
But as soon as the flashback came, it was gone. My hands were gone and my memory spiraled into the truth: my rage boiled the water in my hands and set my soul afire.
“WHAT DO YOU FEAR?!”
The figure yelled in my skull once more… and I felt a need to answer…
“The death of the faceless… by my hands…” And I collapsed.
------------------

So Comes the Darkness to Replace The Fear

The pink figure and the priest pattered into the arena. Dirty, dusty, and nasty. It stunk with the sweat of man and beast trialed against each other in an attempt to reclaim the past triumphs of man in the present and future. The priest looks to his left and right as a paranoiac. He whispered to himself and then his mouth opened in a wordless, soundless scream as he trust his stumps forward. A cloud of obsidian dust bellowed from the dusty floor to engulf the Priest staring with his eyes open, wide eyed at his stumps.

The worst drug of all, recognition, filled his mind. Eyes glassy and confused, the priest stumbled forward, sickeningly striking the earth with only bone. His flesh was ripped from his body by the black dust. The bone, too, crumbled into nothing and he became nothing. The obsidian cloud swirled and raged mimicking the rage of the bull that was being jabbed by the fools of this world who also angered the sun. Large brimmed hats raged against the sun that beat down oppressively on the figures inside. The sun screamed its heat into the world all the more.

The darkness danced dangerously dragging itself into the new world. A black velvety robe shimmered into reality. The waist was tied and looped like a bow. Bo features could be seen on the man beneath its depths due other than hands: fresh, new, and childlike. In one hand there was a three foot cane gripped tightly. Roses were carved down its length the thorns wrapping their way from the blackened steal ball which acted as its head, to the steel tip which became the deadly point of the majestic weapon. Infamy marked the mask: obsidian and opaque – formless and featureless save for a fold that made it look like a simple shield. He took a step and his leather and silk boots made no mark in the loose dust.
---------------

Of The Pink and The Black

At my foot snarled Guilez, looking at me in distrust. To my left was Zooga. “Zooga, master of Disguise and Death! I can barely see you in your camouflage coloring. Shall we kill these bastards and take our rightful place at the head of this tournament? Your infamy is renown, and we shall deal death together as the circumstances dictate.” I smiled beneath my mask, though… I doubt anyone noticed.

EBMinion
========
The rodeo ring smelled like thick meaty bodies and animal manure. The sun beat down on the dirt, making the smells somehow more physical as the atmosphere thickened in the heat. For a walking machine with no sense of smell, this was perfect. Hey You stretched his big mechanical arms and basked in the warmth as he and his little blond partner were instantaneously transported into the middle of this sunlit cage surrounded by cattle and the men who handled them. And then there was the bull just outside the cage, looking ready to get in on the action at anytime.

Now there was also the matter of the purple hooded yutz, the black stick-whirler and the dog sitting opposite Hey You and Lucien in the rodeo arena. The battling golem didn't pay them too much mind at first. Maybe they were his competition, and maybe they weren't. He'd probably get around to kicking their asses eventually. He flexed his perfect machinely muscles, just to make sure that they were working right, as the previous battle had been a chaotic maelstrom that had convinced Hey You of his own destructural integrity.

The machine man looked back at the bull and a note of paranoia creeped into his voice. "They clean these cages, right? If I run some scurvy knave through with my cutlass I don't want to end up... stepping in something. Eugh!" His entire body shook in its frame at the thought of it. To prove his point he drew a cutlass from his left knee and thrust forward at the air, immediately stepping in something with a wet squish.

The machine froze in place with a CLANK. It slowly looked down at its foot and wondered how anything could still be wet and squishy underneath the heat of this baking sun. Luckily, it only turned out to be the world's former most unlucky bird, who had simply picked the wrong place to land. Its body, reduced to a fine paste on the bottom of Hey You's sprocket foot, quickly slid off and hit the dirt. Little swirling eddies of dust puffed around the goo-bird's form.

"No shit!" the robot cried out triumphantly.

Squidi
======
I was easily able to defeat and humiliate the hyper midget in due fact of my superior intellect and blasé demeanor. Despite being so quick, the dumb midget was certainly not the brightest candle on the cake, and I had planned out an inexorable strategy that was impossible to obviate. To make a long story short, I managed to introduce the diminutive creature’s face to my partner’s burning hand. Needless to say, the shrimp’s visage was already so strikingly ugly that the boiling, biting, and mutilating of the furious flames might be considered a favor. After my congratulations ceremony, my otiose partner and I were transported from the transparent glass prison to a pungent, “Yee-haw!” rodeo.

Blatantly disgusting and wretched, the sun beat down so arduously that the heavy air could almost be seen shimmering with the potent stinks of sweat and manure. The rowdy crowd yelped as the pen gate burst open, and an angry bull stampeded into the arena’s center with a ludicrous cowboy amount. Not like it mattered but I should mention that my handicapped partner then died of old age next to me. It appeared that Lady Death—like all women—had arrived fashionably late… like fifty years tardy it would seem. By myself, it wouldn’t have been any trouble defeating two opponents—after all, I’ve overcome two hundred thousand samurais simultaneously—if it weren’t for the fact that one of my foes was the cross of a washing machine, a microwave, and a pole-dancing giant.

Never in all my days had I seen such a contraption, and I’ll admit that even I am afraid of the unknown, so much so that I almost began to quiver in my boots. However, I—being the greatest thief in the entire world—managed to stay composed. I didn’t let on to how I felt; my face was a stoic mask of stone, impossible to break. Abruptly then, I noticed that someone else had fortunately taken my deceased partner’s place. Clad in deep black and an obsidian mask, he stuck out prominent like a hairy mole on someone’s face. Nonetheless, he and the same dilapidated dog would serve well, if at the very least as a mediocre distraction. Not to mention, he was aware of my admirable abilities—but then again, who isn’t?

In response to his comments, I confidently replied, “I don’t know about you, but I will create sanguine rivers of my opponent’s blood.” I smiled pristinely as colorful visions appeared in my mind’s eye. “Those insolent fools that do not run will wind up with their decapitated heads weeping. And, the sexy women, they will be cheering, ‘Zooga! Zooga! Will you have my babies?’ and maybe they will cheer your name too, but obviously not as much as mine.” I looked over to the bull and its rider, circling around in the middle of the rodeo. I knew a thing or two about bulls and the color red. Already, I was beginning to formulate a plan, one that would inevitably lead towards my victory. Only the wisest of men know that inimical bulls charge at those who do not wear the color red. Lucky for me, pink is a lighter shade of that particular color…

Vorin
=====
"I'm too fucking pale for this," snarled Lucien under his breath. What skin the sun above didn't bake was being roasted by the heavy black sweatshirt the boy wore. In truth, the blond was agitated at more than just that. Fantasy worlds with elves and goblins provided few chances for a poor boy to bathe. Deodorants were a rich man's game, leaving the unwashed with the sickening smell of their own body, enhanced by the sweltering heat. Sticky sweat caused the lad's shirts to cling to his body like an extra layer of skin. The tang of manure and dirt was all that was needed to complete the nauseating aroma.

"I wanna' get this done quickly," thought the punk as he wiped his greasy bangs from his eyes. The arena was blinding, sunlight seemed to pour in from everywhere. Thundering cheers erupted from the crowd as the bull circled his way around the arena. The blond had been surprised with the behemoth when they'd first arrived, but soon realized the creature's only interest was removing the man clinging desperately to its back. The audience began to rise and fall, allowing a wave of moving arms to rippled through the stands. "How many of those fuckers are wearing shoes...This is going to turn out like Deliverance, I know it is. I wanna' get this over with now. A twisted bullshit plan began to form in his mind.

Cursing his time spent staring blankly at computer screens, Lucien was finally able to make out his opposition through the heavy haze of sunlight. "Aw fuck, more Nazgul. Wait, is that one wearing pink?" Confused and agitated, the boy threw off his heavy hoodie in a muffled groan of agitation. His faded pink T-shirt was dampened to a light purple, sticking to the form of his torso. "Shit, they're talking a lot. Probably using some complex fantasy language, like Elvish or Canadian or something. So I'm fighting so sort of ninja clown, and a sexually confused ring wraith. That's just fucking perfect. But I guess it beats Peter Murphy."

"Hey You," he whispered. "Just follow my lead. I've got a plan." Lucien ran a few steps forward, flailing his arms wilding to grab the attention of the crowd, the bull, and his opponents. Throwing off the last vestiges of uncertainty, he took in one deep breath to wash it all away. "Shut up!" the twerp cried as his voice began to break." The audience slowly quieted down, though murmurs ran through the bleachers. "Don't you fools know who stands before you today! Do you not realize the truthful terror that is he!" The blond pointed at Hey You melodramatically. "He, he is the only true darkness left in all the universe! He, who extinguished a thousand suns and then re-lit them, and stabbed some people for fun!" The boy's acting was terrible, just as his high school drama teacher had told him. The ferment hand gestures Lucien tried to pass off as serious looked like something out of Napoleon Dynamite. The blond knew he was bad, but if Hey You played up the part his acting wouldn't matter. "I give you, all you foolish...fleshy mortals, Lord Darkhatred...Ravenfeather...esquire!" Though unsure of the name, Lucien was proud to think he used esquire in a sentence not involving a magazine. He knelt in a prolonged bow, trying his best to make the show as real as possible.

EBMinion
========
The golem was in his element now. As Lucien introduced "Lord Darkhatred Ravenfeather Esquire" to the masses, the pistons and pylons began hammering across the machine's frame as its boxy layered arms and legs began posing behind the boy. He would follow Lucien's lead, all right. Hey You aimed to follow it in spades... assuming that meant it was a good thing.

Stamping and flailing in the air, the seven-foot monstrosity of complex and messy construction kicked up the dust with thunder-like stomps. This had several effects. The crowd of straw hats, plaid shirts and jeans gave hoots and hollers that made their dry wooden bleachers creak uncomfortably. Even the rider lost his concentration looking at the man-shaped can in the arena, and was nearly bucked off as Hey You drew the attention of the bull.

Like any rational male bovine could tell you, taking the attention of the crowd was a direct challenge to a bull's pride. The only answer was to reduce its challenger into a fine past on the dirt. Under normal circumstances, this worked fine. The bull confidently dug one of its front hooves into the dirt as it shifted its weight in preparation for a charge. With a disgruntled MOO the bovine ran at Hey You, who noticed the animal and refused to be cowed by it.

He grabbed the animal by its midsection as it rammed its head into his knees. The rider hang onto his saddle for his dear sweet life as the bull was lifted into the air. With a loud groan Hey You bent full backwards, ramming his head and the bull's ass into a ground with the sort of BOOM that only a suplex can deliver. The dust cloud rose into the sky and miraculously blotted out the sun for a single magnificent instant.

The crowd fell silent and a cricket chirped in the background as Hey You relinquished his hold on the bovine. He then turned his steely eye to the audience and remarked, "Applaud, meatlings, and perhaps I won't eat your babies!" As if he had hit the canned-standing ovation button in the recording studio, hands started clapping and the cheers began to fall like rain as Hey You took a bow.

The bull whined as it rose back to its feet, running away from Lord Darkhatred Ravenfeather Esquire who had won the contest of attention. The rider was still holding onto his animal by some insane act of willpower.

For his next act, Hey You withdrew a series of rather pointy implements and began his marvelously cruel juggling routine of the dreaded abyss.

Squidi
======
As I continue to divulge my remarkable tale of fierce vigor, those raptly listening shall soon discern why I am so gallantly renown. Now, I have thus far accounted for one of my opponents—the hunkering behemoth of aluminum foil—but now I shall tell about other. While you may be thinking he was a craven whacko, I must narrate that on the contrary he was unexpectedly intelligent—though not quite as witty, puissant, or dashingly attractive when juxtaposed to myself. Anyways, not only was his shirt of the same dye as my own, but he carried with him a cool demeanor, and he was knowledgeable of what he announced to the crowd. Having strode to the center and efficiently gotten the rodeo’s attention, the candid words loudly spewing from his mouth were indubitably an accurate description of myself.

“Don't you fools know who stands before you today?” he asked. “Do you not realize the truthful terror that is he?” The blond guy then decided to point towards the mechanical menace; I took it as a clue to kill the giant refrigerator first. “He—“ obviously referring to myself “—he is the only true darkness left in all the universe! He, who extinguished a thousand suns and then re-lit them, and stabbed some people for fun!" The prolific man continued to blabber some more, but he no longer held my interest. Rather, once again it was the colossal bull and the maniacal rider atop it. The malicious beast must have been bigger than a horse-drawn carriage and its massive hooves left wheel-sized prints in the orange dirt. Its burning eyes stared my way, but as I said earlier, bulls don’t attack those that wear the color pink. My audacious beliefs were once again confirmed as the creature turned away and beckoned towards the metallic monstrosity.

The boiling bovine stampeded with abandon towards the robotic bulldozer, a cloud of ochre following its charge. Unbeknownst to the furious creature, its prospects of triumph were nonexistent. In a wrestling maneuver of sorts, the metallic giant lifted the bull and rider overhead, arched backwards, and boisterously slammed them both to the ground. It must have taken a great deal of strength, but I wasn’t worried even as the broken beast and relentless man moaned and sullenly reacquired their bearings. Then the machine then—as if he were a circus entertainer, completing random acts with no apparent incentive—began to juggle some sharp and dangerous stuff instead of actually attacking. It looked like I was going to have to make the first move. Reaching into one of the various pouches at my waist, I removed a tiny brass saxophone like a little toy trinket.

As a child, I was the star performer of my school’s band. I was so damn exceptional that I could play soothing tunes that would make those that listened fall dead asleep. Sometimes when I was finished playing a song, those listening didn’t want to hear any other sound but mine. In fact, I was so good at my instrument—the saxophone—that the teacher had to kick me out of the band because I was making all the other kids look bad, and they became inimically jealous. Back to the battle, I whispered a secret word, and the tiny brass instrument grew exponentially until it was of a playable size. I said to my partner, “Close your ears,” for I wouldn’t want to put him at risk. Then, putting the saxophone to my pursed lips and both of my hands to the keys, I blew powerfully and played the beautiful notes. The noise sounded as a constant stream of harmonious playing with weaving crescendos and drooping high pitches. It was music to my ears, and the crowd fell trap to my immaculate playing when they dropped from their seats like a puppet whose strings have been cut. They were sleeping, of course, just as all people slumber—with their hands covering their ears and an agonizing expression upon their faces.

Paramnesia
==========
It didn’t have a name. It simply was, and it listened. Nobility of an idiotic name nourished an empty soul devoid of such folly. Sickened by the prospect of yet another battle, it screamed within the flesh it held. The machine before it was an abomination. Eyes of an otherwise empty face, concealed by obsidian sickness, glow with the brilliance of a dimming sun. Never nostalgic about those who needed to die, a parasite paused and punctured itself with words. A thought, if captured, would express the hatred that defined the creature within. “Metal,” the energy whispered to the flesh, and the flesh whispered back, “Abandonment! Rejection! Desertion!” The words were not the confident lightning of the energy that was it… The words were that of fear…

Simultaneously, the black masked figure fell so furiously to the ground gripping its head. While flesh isn’t exactly intelligent; it knows pain, it knows death. It knows it annihilates the human hotels when it vacates. As the darkened one fell, the bull’s rage became redoubled by the presence of another. It was inside with such a rage for metal. It cannot control metal, so cold, so lifeless. The arena was filled with flesh and filed so early within the computer of its mind was who, what, and when it would use. Wishes are wishes, and it wishes to wish for true flesh. As the metal lifted it and the bull, collectively, the flesh felt itself fall again. Quickly it once again abandoned its home. From mount to rider, it once again moved like lightning.

The beast seemed fine, of a sort. It stood up – but the flesh would soon succumb to the weariness of the theft. The strength of the bull, the rage, the emotion emerged into the rider with the emanate opposition to emancipation: it. Bursting with energy bloodshed blossomed in the baroque bandages of a western mummy. Eyes searching maddeningl, the flesh sprung to its feet. He heard a screeching squeal of crashing cacophony from the fool that proved it’s apparent partner. The rider smiles as he continues to maintain deafness – before it was the deafness of ignorant rage. Now? It was the deafness of willful disregard. It chose his target and took a step – not to the metal, but to the enemy flesh. That which the tournament dictated that it couldn’t taint.

EBMinion
========
Hey You noticed there was something amiss in the arena. All of a sudden, nobody was paying attention to him! The nerve of those imperfect meatbags was truly meaty and intolerable, the perfect machine thought. Why would they choose clapping their hands over their ears and groaning as though in pain as opposed to watching the marvelous, the incomparable Lord Darkfeather Hatredraven Yaddayadda? A fire burned in his internal furnace, and the battle golem knew that something had to be done about this.

He probably would have understood the situation better had he not possessed a tin ear.

Unfortunately, his tirade was cut short by a most mysterious occurance; the rider of the bull he had masterfully manhandled had gotten off of his hoss and was approaching the poor meatboy Lucien, who had clapped his hands over his ears, keeled over and whimpered in fear. With a quick stomp, the golem hopped in front of his young charge and stood in the way of the cowpoke.

"Now see here, o layer of feces and bleeder of blood! I won't be having any assassination while I'm fighting in a tournament." the golem explained while poking the cowpoke's chest with a stern finger.

Though Paramnesia and Squidi won, they were disqualified for other reasons

[Z0Rr0Rex]

Traven and Marten VS Singular Sinchronicity

Krystin
=======
A Child’s Puzzle
Writen by Squidi (rewritten by bw3n)

It is an intricate maze. Looking down from an eagle's eye view, the arena is a square shell with sides running approximately one hundred feet. In the middle of each side, an open portcullis to the maze stands in monotonous defiance of the white concrete walls. Filling the area with shadow, the Tournament Executive enters, and waits at all four entrances. As they walk forth, “Your ally will be entering from the opposite side. These halls are five feet wide with the solid concrete walls being eight feet high and one foot thick.”

The sun shines from a cloudless sky blue to the point of ecstasy; this gental contrast to the washing of wind over the vibrant grass is clearly much more aesthetic than the imposing iron of the enterance. “The maze itself is complicated. Walking along dead ends and traveling in circles is more likely than not, unless you are extremely lucky. The chances of interacting with an enemy in the intertwining halls are statistically more probable than meeting an ally.” The sharp turns and crossing paths don't lead to an end in particular only intertwine and wash togather.

The shadowy figure flies to the air pulling shadows as he passes and retreats to the center of the maze. A smaller ‘inner’ square with sides being twenty feet long resides. The murky figure enters the inky darkness, not through a gate – for there was none. He dissipates where there is no ground to walk upon, it is a giant hole. From the depths comes the voices maddening cackle, “The black unknown, an abyss to nowhere, and whoever may be unfortunate enough to fall into it is sure to never come out.”


Angel
=====
Time seemed to drag on and on in the glass cube as Monica waited in utter silence for her teammate to say something… anything. Had she really upset him that much that he was giving her one of the most severe forms of punishment imaginable? Finally, she resigned herself to sitting in one of the corners of the cube where she could look at some of the other fights. Such a wide assortment of people… and things… she couldn’t even recognize half of the races she saw. Sighing deeply, her silver-tipped white tail swished lazily behind her. Yes, she had a tail. She also had two large cat-like ears folded sadly against her long white hair and a thin layer of fur all over the rest of her rather petit frame.

With no warning at all, a portal of some sort opened up underneath her, quite literally tearing her away from the glass cube and throwing her into another arena altogether. Well, perhaps throwing wasn’t quite the right word. She quickly found herself standing in a field of lush grass with only the tournament director (or at least one of his lackeys) to keep her company. When the director opened his mouth to speak, the cat-girl’s hazel eyes sparkled with joy. The sound of the words was just so wonderful compared to the dull silence she had been faced with. She listened intently as the two walked toward the imposing concrete structure and the iron gate that she would use to enter the maze. He said the maze was complicated; that there were many dead ends she would run into. She wouldn’t be able to count on her partner right away or possibly even at all in this one… a thought that she didn’t want to think about. She pressed her ears frightfully against her head when she heard the voice from the pit speak; did that mean that even the tournament healers wouldn’t be able to save someone if they fell into that pit? Healers who could transcend the mortal laws to restore life from nothing rendered powerless against the pit… she shuddered even more at the thought. The official faded into nothing… and there was silence once more.

Looking around from the eastern entrance, the cat girl noticed that she was staring straight at one of the foot-thick concrete walls. Turning to her right, there was a nice long hallway with two breaks in the wall near the end; to her left was a right-hand corner. Backing up to the gate, her toe claws extended from her bare feet out of nervousness. She almost didn’t realize what was happening until she found her foot dragging across the ground. Rather than pulling her claws like usual, the silver-furred girl scratched her foot across the concrete ground once more. Much to her delight, she felt a good deal of resistance. Flexing her fingers released six-inch long blades from the tip of each of her fingers, though the blades came from the olive-and-gold gloves she wore, not her real fingers.

Pouncing, for that was the only way to describe how she moved, at the wall sent her little more than halfway up the eight-foot height, but for some reason she didn’t come down from the wall. Instead she stayed there like a spider, the razor-edged blades from each fingertip and the naturally sharp claws of her toes working together to keep her easily on the rough concrete surface. It did not take long from that point to scurry up the wall and feel the refreshing summer breeze once more from the foot-thick floor she was now standing on. It was very different looking at the maze from the top than from inside; a sense of confinement and wonder of how escape from the maze was even possible was replaced by freedom and relief that she was once again in the open. Now if only she could find her partner…

“Ebi! Where are you?”

Ebivoulya
=========
A misty night in Hell would be an accurate description, for not even the wayward moon could pierce the blackened blanket of clouds. Wrought wooden taverns, inns, and private establishments dotted the cobweb streets in a stoic fashion. The few wandering Watch members cast impatient gazes upon those who interrupted their leisure with foolish questions. In fact, if not for the genial features of the occasional drunkard littered with stains, this dank autumn’s eve would be more reminiscent of a graveyard than a town.

The incessant rains as of late were not helping the situation, but even more detrimental were the swarms of rats flooding up from the overflowing sewers. The few remaining citizens pleaded with their Mayor to do something, but his ear was too distracted by the jingle of coins to hear them. Those who had not the resources simply to move out kept company with vermin, and bickered over the least bit of extra food or ale like dogs.

One such two-legged dog cast his sunken gaze to the disgusting streets once more, merely to remind himself of the state of his affairs. The reality still hadn’t seeped through. He continually drowned himself in alcohol, and sought the deserted niches to spend his nights somberly aware of his own folly. He could never forget that face, for it came back to him every time he closed his eyes, but even the most painful of memories can be washed clean with enough alcohol.


Chirping birds serenaded the bright, invasive rays of sunlight as they tore through the misty morning. The dry, stale taste of a night at the bar brought his crusted eyes open to view the bittersweet morning. The boxes surrounding him blocked most of the light, but he judged it to be near noon. His matted hair and stained clothes drew strange looks from passersby. With a raspy grunt, he pushed his hulking frame up from the dirty alleyway and stumbled out into the day.

The sun cast a bright blur on everything in his view. Even shielding his eyes with a gloved hand didn’t clarify his position any more. An endless but sparse stream of people flowed before him, each individual affecting the overall direction of the horde. The light burned his eyes, and within moments, he flipped his dirty black hood over his face and began walking in some random direction.

His stumbling shell of a body barely made it two blocks before tripping over a dog and slamming down to his knees. His limbs fell to his sides, weak with inaptitude, just as they did while he watched her die. Though his fingers lay limp, a burning, boiling rage swelled just beneath the surface. He slammed his hand down to the cobblestone road, and pushed himself up off his knees. The few people beside him held their shock for fear of what he may do, startled by the grimace on his face.

His mind swirled, his head hurt, and it was not going to be a good damn day. The roaring of his stomach drowned out the mumbling of everyone who just seemed to want to get in his way. It took the utmost self-control not to introduce the next random person who bumped into him to his steel plated fist.

Why didn’t I-

Do…something?

The question burned in his mind like an everlasting cinder. More painful, though, was his extremely empty gut. He stopped on a street corner, took a deep breath, and pulled out his pipe and a leather flap. After carefully stuffing some of its contents into the bowl, he pulled a match out of the same pocket, struck it on a building, and lit the bowl. The original billow of smoke slimmed to a steady, swirling stream, and he continued his trek, scanning the streets for a stand. He soon began to walk a little slower, and his irritation started to melt away, if only slightly.


By the time his pipe was empty, he found the marketplace. Surprisingly, the number of people nearly doubled. He strolled through the shifting mass, his body calmed, but his mind still somberly penitent. All of the meats and cheeses which normally would’ve left his mouth watering seemed a stale, unappetizing, and flawed symbol of an unattainable idea; omittance of discomfort. He finally settled on a pear on which a butterfly was quietly perched. He didn’t wish to disturb it, but almost as though sensing his intent, it gently fluttered off. He almost smiled.

Approaching the stand, he pointed to the pear, untied his purse and poured some coins in his hand. The keep handed him the pear before he could count out what he owed him, so he set his purse on the counter for less than three seconds. He had seven coins left his hand, and his pear. He set his other hand down on his pouch, and found wood. Immediately he spun around and caught site of an ankle and a…tail as they disappeared into the crowd just a little too quickly.

Got’cha

He stuffed the few coins he had left into his pocket and sprinted after the little thief. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t catch up to the little bastard. He finally followed him down a less crowded alleyway, and threw the pear at his head the first chance he found. Sadly, it missed, and he kept running for at least another minute. Finally, she turned a corner into a narrow side street, and he followed shortly after. He couldn’t help but snicker when he saw the Watch members. The thief turned around to run, and that was when he noticed he was a she. She looked barely 17, and the pitiful look of apology she shot him caught him off guard. The officers walked up behind her, and snatched the purse from her hand while she was staring at him.

Don’t look at me like that…you did it

His run slowed to a jog, then to a stop a few feet from her and the guards. She had nowhere to go, but in spite of that, she was still tense, and the way she kept looking behind him gave him a clue about what she was planning.

“There you are, Kathy. I forgot to tell you to get a pound of chuck, too.”

The look of shock on her face almost made him smile, but he diverted his attention to the two Watch members behind her. They had sour looks on their faces, which hadn’t been shaved for weeks, and their uniforms were dirty and unkempt, much like his own, which he suddenly became aware of. He stepped toward them, offering his hand, with an expectant eye.

“Thank you for slowing her down, I thought I’d never catch up to her!”

“Uh, sure, just doing what we can.”

The other guard elbowed him.

“Oh! Here’s your purse.”

“Thank you.”

He turned away from them, reflexively dusting himself off, as if it would magically wear away the week of dirt and grime. He took a couple steps, then turned back to see her still standing dumbfounded in front of the guards. This time he couldn’t help but smirk.

“Aren’t you coming? You won’t be able to carry all of it by yourself.”

She quietly began to follow, and he turned to walk with her.


The whipping wind wreaked havoc on his long hair, and he lost his last tie just the other day. Though the sun was bright, it was behind him, and the knee-high grass, which licked at his legs, reminded him of home. From what he could see, he could guess his destination; a generic imposing steel door. It was a rather cliché sight after the completely unexpected destruction and recomposition of reality as he knew it, which was unnerving to say the least.

I really hope they don’t plan on doing that every time.

He had scoffed when they told him he had to fight his partner in the last round. Tournament or not, he had felt no need or want to do so, and reserved himself to silent meditation while he waited out the other fighters.

Finally, he reached the door and it grinded open, piercing his sensitive ears. He quickly stepped inside, and it closed. Immediately he realized how easily he could climb the conveniently short walls. He took a few steps to his right, then left, and found himself facing a corner, which was perfect for his purposes. Crouching, he leaned back, then took two hasty steps toward the corner, and kicked himself airborne. His feet carried him along the wall long enough to reach the corner, and his chest slammed into the top of the wall. He clumsily scrambled up it, and managed to be seated, but not without a few moments of wariness as he got used to the thin seat. He flipped one leg over, and placed his hand behind him.

There she is

He spotted Monica, but couldn’t see either of their opponents.

"Hey!"

He didn’t want to fall, so he kept his seat, but waved, pointed to himself, and then to her left.

Singular Sinchronicity advanced to the next Round

[Z0Rr0Rex]

Peace of Cake VS Lost Vestiges

Krystin
=======
The Fall Written by Bw3nyrgna
A burst of energy accompanies one massive portal opening at the top of a pit. The walls at the furthest point are about 15 feet from one another or have a 15 feet diameter. Light is bent and twisted as the Tournament Executive appears and touches the walls- lightning explodes in the darkness from his fingertipes. The energy seems to be absorbed into the walls as they glow a dull white and it is finally seen that the pit bottom is a spiral of barbed spikes, still containing bits of gore from the previous combatants. The bottom of the pit was filled with a goo that seemed to coat the walls like cooking oil – it would allow no form of animal to catch hold.

The shadowy figure gestures at the spikes and second portal appears at the bottom of the pit, hiding the spikes in its pulsating blue light. “I have just created a bottomless pit. Fall!” Four figures fall out of the ceiling-portal towards the bottom. The wall is too smooth to use as a grip to stop the fall, but that didn’t stop previous contestants from leaving fingernail makes and infinitesimal scares from swords, spells, and advanced grappling techniques. Feet print could bee seen in the slippery good that caused the glowing wall to shimmer so majestically indicating that the wall could be used to propel ones self off of. The tournament executive blinks out of existence.

Kanji
=====
I was dead once, falling through the darkness, lost, dissuaded from all the majesty, all the grandeur of life.

Teleporting between the ‘arenas’ was proving to be a daunting process; Serf was already regretting the mental strain that it was presenting. There didn’t seem to be any reason or rule to the transporting of the contestants. Rather from his experience they seemed to be thrown much like rag dolls into new areas. Though, Serf observed regrettably, that was probably the downside to being in a organized tournament as a contestant anyway. Being nothing but a meat puppet for people to cheer and jeer at, the prospect of becoming famous or as it was in this particular setting, a legend, blinding the contestants to the workings of the organizers.

At first the pressure of air rushing past his ears drowned out the permanent feeling of being cast into a state of weightlessness. It was hard for him to move about in the eternal free fall between the two portals that had been presented. However it was even harder for the bondage fighter to grasp the details of what was around him, he could tell at least that they were falling between two portals, gaining momentum as the hurtled downward. However the walls blurred as he sped past, the wind lashing into his eyes causing him to tear up when he tried to focus.

I began to wonder. Was it really death? Or just my own disillusion, my own demons that forced me to that state of being?

Pulling down his bandanna so that the wind did not cut into his sensitive eyes, Serf took another look at what he was up against. He didn’t much care for who he was fighting yet, as it was more likely that they were dealing with their own problems, being cast into an awkward situation usually made people more aware of themselves than others. Serf wasn’t about to go against the trend, he needed to stop his descent in order to have better control of the situation.

Of course, the walls were covered in a viscous substance that looked slippery to the touch, putting Serf’s mind in a dark place. Most of all he hoped it wasn’t something like fecal matter or any other crude substance, as he would have to touch it with his bandages and they were much like a harder to wash second skin. Not that there was really much room for him to care about how his bandages smelled or looked, they had already collected the dirt and grime of years of use.

Moving in vertically was easy enough, just a matter of realizing that the laws of gravity had a hold on every object ever. Horizontally however was proving to be a bit more of a challenge, the bandaged fighter finding that he had to literally push the momentum of his body a certain direction, much like throwing himself toward a wall with as much force as possible. Indeed as he hit the wall he felt as though he had thrown himself at full speed, pain shooting up his back as he slid downward against the slick gelatinous surface, under which the solid backing of stone could obviously be felt.

Planting his right arm and one leg hard against the wall, Serf strained as he tried to slow his descent to a pace that the others would fall past him countless times before he reached the bottom portal. He could feel the various grooves and marks of the stone wall under the ooze, countless hands, claws, and talons trying desperately to find something to hold onto. Under his rough palm he could feel the scurrying, wide eyed fear of those who had fallen to their doom before him. They had tried to stop against the wall and hold their eventual demise for a later date, he was going against human nature by not stopping his descent, rather trying to slow it. In the end the bandaged fighter would go the same way as the countless beings who had tried to save themselves before, down.

Never once in all my battles had I been run through with a blade, burned to ash, or otherwise destroyed by my enemies. Indeed it wasn't my own will to survive. No. I was a doll, cast aside by a child that no longer had need for silly things like me. But such is the life of a warrior, one moment you’re a hero, the next you’re less than garbage.

“Brilliant… Stick us in a death trap and call it a fight.” Serf grumbled as he focused on gaining some sort of friction. Patches of uncovered stone were rare but they did appear, allowing him to effectively slow his descent exponentially. “Skye! Heads up!”

Calling out to his ally in question Serf watched as he fell quickly past, whether or not he heard his celestial partner was left to the imagination. Serf wasn’t about to spend valuable time explaining his plan to the Vampire, warning him and hoping he had the intuition to stay aware was about all that he could do. There was another way, though Serf wasn’t sure how much power he had available to him after spending so much time in recluse.

Alright Mother… I haven’t done this in a while. Please oh please let me be able. Serf prayed to Bef after such a long time of silence.

The angels that had once watched over him smiled, all was not lost for their child, their champion.

Opening up his mind and soul, Serf felt the holy infusion that had once been grafted to his spirit flare to life much like a heatless fire in his gut. And as he descended, the bandaged fighter closed his eyes letting his faith guide his actions. There was no glow, no words attached to what had happened to the wall. At one moment Serf was sliding down the slick flat surface, careening downward despite his best efforts to slow himself. The next the wall under him quickly jutted outward, bowing outward and sloping into a makeshift ledge, long and wide enough to encompass at very least the circumference of the pit.

Unfortunately the ledge wasn’t exactly a very safe landing, as the viscous substance that had coated the wall also coated the ledge, making it slippery. Still Serf managed to land on his feet, admiring his work for only a moment as he looked up to the portal where he expected his friend and foes to fall out of at any moment. He could imagine that in a way he had helped everyone, in another light though he figured he could make some tactical use of the ledge. It wouldn’t last long, certainly not with the plans he was already formulating.

Really it was more what Skye intended to do; his actions would determine the Bandaged Fighters overall outlook on the battle. Serf had worked together with numerous people, not of his own choice, but enough to know that his abilities were best used in the thrall of another beings leadership. Protecting himself was all well and good, but when protecting a team Serf’s abilities began to truly come into their own.

Don’t you feel him too? Surely I’m not the only one. Serf pushed up his headband again as he continued to peer through the murky darkness. I never… No, I should say, we, never die… We just go away for a while. Biding our time in all sorts of dark haunted places until someone is able to pick us up and make something respectable out of us. Isn't that what being a warrior, a champion is all about? Waiting for the next manipulator?

Skye
====
"I was a man once, or so the saying goes, a living, breathing, feeling mortal. But now... Now it seems apathy's crafted of itself a vassal of woe, and woe is me."

The crude transition between dimensions was always rough when induced by another. The leap was often much slower yet infinitely safer in one's own hands, but the inclusion of a second party meant a brutal, painstaking shift between realms. And so it was for Skye, the hazy azure of the cube world fading from sight and a distant, all-encompassing black maw swallowing existence whole. Its fangs were sharp, and as he tumbled through an abysmal vortex he could feel them probing his sides, puncturing where necessary to tie his being to the fabrics of another plane; divine anchors were being driven into him with the acute pain of actual injuries. It was a process he knew all too well. Even his cold black surroundings suffused a familiar, homely glow.

But then his eyes opened.

Light crawled out of the void, if only minutely, to shed its grace over rounded stone walls. Their details were masked by a sort of slime that crawled over their surfaces in what seemed pliable fashion, or so Skye would have liked to think. The shimmering substance, however, thought otherwise and slid downward in twisted masses of zealotry. The fanged warrior entrenched both hands in it, but it proved an excellent repellant in that he couldn't even feel the mortar behind it. Then the fall began, a horrid descent through, upon further inspection, a pit; no bottom in sight, only the ominous appearance of another gyrating, sable-hued portal. The end, if it could be called that, was fast approaching, and before he knew it he was enveloped in the cold embrace of the void, borne yet again against the folds of reality and sewn throughout its stitches like a precarious needle.

Much to his surprise, and fortune for that matter, he emerged at the top of the pit again. This time, however, he willed himself to fly, every frantic synapse mustering the courage to levitate. That didn't work either, and he was still plummeting. It was then that he caught sight of Serf, poised and calm atop a perch of his own design. Well if he couldn't fly in this perverted version of reality, he sure as hell could manipulate it!

His mind, in its preternatural way, shut out the alarming effects of the fall, one which he'd experienced before when Gaia banished him from the Divine Realm -- what an experience that was--, and found a mental hold on the concealed blocks around him. With a slight twist of his will they were mobile, each piece of the wall becoming outstretched palms of sorts that cradled his landing. Well, that was the subtle way to word it. When one thought about it, how could an abrupt halt at terminal velocity be cradled by stone?...

True, pain shot through his elbow and abdomen as he impacted, but that was a feeling that was robbed of him long ago; rather, he burdened the effects with the equivalent of illness attacking an immune: it simply didn't register. He knew it should have hurt, and that's what made it so. He grimaced under the spreading iridescent light, gathering himself to his feet, keeping in mind that he was on unstable ground, and placed his hands to the pommels of his tachi. His eyes were dimmed, much reflecting his mood, and cast to the heavens in a fiery gaze at the above portal.

"And when dusk came and I rose for the first time in my newly fashioned shell, I knew the meaning of the ancient, though slightly altered idiom: Hell Hath no fury like a mortal scorned."

Shade
=====
A tumbling form enters the arena. She has silver wings, silver eyes, and brown hair. Her face is shaped somewhat like a snout, as well--not that the figure minded this of course. She tumbles and tumbles, trying to use her silver wings to right herself. But yet, the air pressure forces her wings down against her side. She is tumbling on a slant, a very exaggerated slant so that--

"Oof!" Serenity says as she hits the far right wall. Fortunately, this causes her to stop spinning. Unfortunately, she can't grab a hold of the wall. Time to compensate. She pushes back against the wall with her feet, and this propels her up.

The half-dragon is looking at two people, the likes of which she has never seen before. One person seems to have found a ledge on the side--a ledge? Where did that come from? The walls were impossible to grab onto, she has tried, and so the person sohuld logically have just slipped off. But yet, he doesn't.

Another person is across form her, also trying to stop his fall. Serenity had given up on stopping her fall several moments ago. With a swallow, she looks up.

Ante? Ante? Where are you, Ante? I can't do this by myself!...

A-Slice-of-Cake
===============
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

This tournament was really starting to creep Ante Urameshi out. First, what was with that cube thing at the beginning? That was worthless! And now, what was he in, some sort of cylinder thing? He was falling too fast to keep his eyelids open for long enough to tell, damn it. Actually, the fact that he was falling perpetually was enough to fright even the will-tested gambler. Ante'd always hated heights... All he could hope for right now was that he didn't flip in a way that he'd have to look down.

The air was starting to mess with his hair a bit. How annoying could these situations get? Almost reflexively, his elegant fingers made a futile brush along his long, wavy, dark brown hair back in place, only for the stuff to retain its former, aggravating position. Man, physics sucked! Angrily, the tall, thin man struggled to reach for his electric blue fedora, but his fingers hit it before his palm could get over it. Before he could do anything, it was gone far above him. Damn it! He loved that hat! It had been made to match his suit and slacks and to accent his neon orange shirt... what a hellhole of a tournament.

Whoa, there were more pressing matters. Defying the will of his speed to shut his eyes, he forced them open, nearly crying from the wind. It didn't; it was a natural reaction. Dang, his vision was so blurry, but it looked like he was just about to-

"God damn it!" Well, it felt like he'd executed a perfect face plant into one of the walls, and it'd reflexively slammed his eyes shut again. It felt like a rectangular wall - so it wasn't a cylinder? More importantly, it hurt! God, what was this? Was that blood from his nose? No, too thick - plus, it smelled awful. Whatever it was, it was disgusting! Not that he could do anything about it - it felt like his arms were pinned. Plus, now he was spinning from the collision. This was bad. They didn't expect him to fight like this, right?

Okay, Ante was focusing too much on himself. That's what he used to do. He'd decided to change, and he would. Hopefully, his dear Serenity was doing better than him. It'd make sense if she was; she did have wings, after all. Not that it made much difference, but, in case by some freak event she was near, he cried, nearly screamed, "Serenity!" Meh, it was pretty lame, but it'd get her attention if she was around.

Hang on, did he just see her? It'd been a blur - that's all he could wrench his eyes open for - but he thought he saw silver wings. Then again, maybe he just wanted to. Yeah, that was it. He didn't even know which way was which, how could he expect to see her? That'd just be unreasonable.

Kanji
=====
Ah but its never that simple is it? Nothing ever is. Bastard actually screamed. Funny. Serf couldn’t help but to smirk as he watched the man scream much like a girl would as he fell through the portal for the first time. Finally I can stop being emotional about my past and start focusing on something that matters… Which is to say anything that doesn’t involve destiny or fate.

He fumbled for his hat, a fedora of some kind, as it flew away from his grasp sailing gently through the air as a feather would. However the brightly dressed gentleman didn’t have such luck, his body hurtling ever downward, continuing to scream. From his ledge he watched as both he and what appeared to be some kind of female gargoyle fell endlessly. Serf could not spare any pity, as he himself had been only recently been thrown into the same situation fumbling with all his self training and power to stop his descent.

Below him was Skye, who looked as if he had smacked the stone he had pulled out of the wall rather hard. His ally seemed more annoyed than hurt as he gazed upward with those dull eyes, almost seeming to look at the bandaged fighter. That was of course until the two other fighters fell past him his gaze following as they quickly fell through the portal at the bottom, quickly reappearing at the top. It was almost whimsical to watch, though at the same time it was easy to not only imagine but recall him self in that very position.

Stepping to reach into his left pocket proved his previous thought that there wasn’t much grip on the ledge that he had created. It was probably best to call it a ring, the foothold he had made gently sloping upward so that he would not fall out unless he so desired jutting out the throat of the pit. Serf supposed he could have made it bigger but he felt the need to deny advantages such as that to his opponents. Still his power was connected to the ledge so long as he willed it; it was only a matter of time before he changed the shape of the ledge to something he desired.

What to do? What to do? Pulling a cigarette and his lighter from his pocket, the bandaged fighter positioned the cancerous stick in his mouth and swiped his thumb across the lighter until a flame instantly warmed his palm and the front of his face. Before he could light up however his ‘opponents’ rushed past causing the air around him to excite and his lighter to extinguish. Damn it. How ungrateful of the… Give them a chance to stop and they decide to ignore it.

Begrudgingly lighting his cigarette again, he took a long death defying drag and let the smoke settle in his lungs before expelling it from his nostrils. Not only did the smoke break mellow him out slightly, he liked the thought of dying in such a mundane way. A subtle poke in the eye to all the other warriors in the world who thought that the only way to go was at the hands of a better warrior. An ‘honorable’ death as it were was usually something very bloody and very painful, not at all the way he felt like going. He much preferred slowly deteriorating on a comfortable hospital bed listening to the electronic rhythm of his heart until it flat lined.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Serf committed himself to the grave as he took another drag of his cigarette. Alright now that I’m dead, onto more important matters. But you’re not dead are you? No you can never die so long as someone has a use for you. Bloody manipulative bastards out there could always use a bit of muscle.

“Skye get up here.” Serf said finally. “Its time to kick some ass.”

He waited for them to fall one more time for the other team to fall past him before planting his hand against the wall, causing the earth beneath his feet to spring to life again. The ring gathered up beneath his feet and grew outward, covering half the pit in a ledge, the other half open to where Skye could get up to or someone could be pushed off if he so desired. No longer having to keep close to the wall, Serf let his energy disperse to where it pulsated warmly through his arms and chest.

“Oh but how this will hurt!” Serf exclaimed with a sadistic cant in his voice, watching as both the gargoyle and the loudly dressed man fell from the top portal, hurtling toward the ledge he created with increasing speed. “Come, lets play a game!”

It would definitely be an interesting sight, watching them crash into the ledge with such force that it would either break their bones or the ledge. Either way it was almost like knowing a train wreck were about to happen right before his eyes, morbid curiosity lining his every thought. Serf also had to admit that he loved the idea of not having to do anything to leave his enemies in pain, not one finger lifted, such a simple, deadly plan.

Taking yet another drag of his cigarette, the bandaged fighter clenched his fists reflexively, his whole body tightening as he braced himself for impact. Despite being very interested in what was about to happen, his mood wasn’t bright or cheery. He didn’t enjoy having to hurt people, after such a long reprieve from fighting, he wasn’t sure if he could muster up all the indifference he needed to get through this. It was as simple as punishing the wicked anymore, pure wickedness just didn’t exist; there was always a point of origin.

There are no champions of just and right either. Just survival.

Shade
=====
Serenity's eyes widen in fear as the ledge suddenly appears. SHe quickly tries to grab onto the wall, but it is too slippery--even her claw-like fingernails can not grab a hold of the wall. Her speed is hurtling fast towards the ledge.

Why did I agree to do this...?...I know that Ante is my boyfriend, but still...I don't think I like violence very much...

Down and down she hurtles, going faster and faster. She is about half way there. SHe has many tricks in her arsenal--most she had taught her herself, but yet--she can't even think of doing anything at this moment. She is going to hit the ledge, she realizes, whether she likes it or not.

Thoughts of family and past images drift through her mind. She has a few more feet to go before she hits the ledge. Her first thought isn't of her mom or stepdad, or even her Aunty; rather, they seem to settle on Jade, the smiling, ultra-friendly draike, her sister of sorts. How she misses her already!

Down and down she goes, bracing for impact. If she could just fall in such a way that she doesn't hit her wings. But yet, perhaps that is the safest idea; after all, from what she understands, her wounds will be healed following this tournament. Her wings are thick, and leathery, and they would offer her protection.

As she is falling, she perfroms a sudden twist in the air, a few feet from the ledge, and just in time, too. She crashes into the ledge with a gigantic THUD! How painful that is! She can feel her wing ache; she can tell that it is broken, or at least paralyzed. But yet, the rest of her body seems to be unharmed. How does she know that her wing could take so much damage and yet protect her? She guesses it is a blessing her father gave her.

Getting to her feet, she soon realizes what an inconvenience this actually is. Her left wing is the broken one, and yes though she realizes that she is right winged, right-armed, right-handed, etc. She can't run very well, because that involves moving her left arm, and that in turn moves her left wing, which is nearly blindingly painful. "Ow!" She exclaims, testing out the rest of her body parts. The rest seem to be fine, but yet the fall has rendered her entire left side of her body, not counting the legs or the head, to be completely useless. She would need to think on her feet, and fast, very, very, very fast.

The man smokes? HEr mother has always told her that smoking is evil, and perhaps that is why this man fights? No time to analyze it though. Looking up, she shouts to Ante, "WATCH OUT!"

Tears of pain run down her cheeks, but she quickly wipes them away. Now is not the time to cry; even Mantis would agree with that, and probably so would Ante.

Looking up at the smoker, and still harnessing the memories that she had possessed, she uses this memories to infuse herself with positive energies. These positive energies go down to her heart, which is where all the light energy lies in her body. From this, she forces her energy up and up, through her arms, and finally her wrists tingle. Her one arm can't be used so much, but her other arm? She raises it, palm facing towards the man who is falling.

From her arms come large light disks, capable of causing severe damages to the body. Looking up, with a still somewhat-innocent look in her eye, she shoots them upwards towards the man. They were away from Ante, and she could control them and make them fall in lines each one slightly below the other one. It is her hope that not only the smoker, but also the other man, will fall right into them.

A-slice-of-Cake
===============
There wasn't a reply. Just as Ante'd thought: she wasn't around. It was to be expected. After all, there was so much open space here and - whoa! This was not good.

Some weird kind of disturbance in the air had made him flip over, head facing down now. Ah, why did these things always happen to him? He really didn't want to open his eyes; it'd be like a nightmare come to life. But he had to search for Serenity... he had to make sure she was okay. Still, he was not going to like this.

One cool thing about the flip was that he actually could open his eyes now. In fact, it was hard not to. His arms were still pinned to his sides, probably making him look like some sort of demented bird. How was he going to do this? Whatever was below him, it was going to be ominous; that was for sure. Okay, here it went. One... two... three!

Oh, hell no.

All he was staring at was a blue oblivion, a striking blue, one that came pretty close to his suit's color. Regardless of hue, that looked like the end of the road. Of course, just to coincide with Murphy's Law, there wasn't a trace of Serry. Well, great. Man, it was coming fast! No other option, time to brace for impact... his eyes shut automatically. His muscles were tensing and wouldn't stop. Then again, wasn't it better to land with tense muscles? Ah, the gambler didn't know these odds. Here it came...

What was that? He'd waited for at least five seconds - more than enough time, definitely - but there'd been no crack, no sickening thud, not even any pain. In fact, it felt like he was still falling! So, what? Was this death? That kind of sucked. Well, he could probably try to open his eyes again and see what death looked like. One... two... three.

What the hell? He was okay? Had that thing been some sort of teleport thing? He was in the exact same situation as before, except now, he couldn't see a bottom. He was alive! And here he'd been so scared... how childish of him. Ah, for God's sake... he caught a bit of weird air again, with his stomach now where his head had been, his limbs now forced flat and outstretched. Still, he didn't have anything to worry about. The whistling wind taking all his hearing, Ante could just relax, shut his eyes, and enjoy the ride, now that there'd be no bottom-

"Ah, fuck!" Apparently, there was a bottom.

Now, Ante'd done belly-flops before, but, Lord, this must've been the mother of them all. How had he survived this? It must have been rarer than a legitimate royal flush, taking a fall at that speed and living, especially on rock. Or, at least it felt like rock. There was this sort of burning sensation in his rib cage; he'd probably cracked a rib or two. Hell, he'd probably cracked five. His arms and legs felt like they'd just impacted stone at a high speed - imagine that. Still, he could move his digits: nothing broken in his limbs, then.

God, it hurt! It was as though he'd been some sort of fly, swatted to the stone or whatever it was. Technically, he could move, but there was no way that was happening for a while. All he could do was hope his opponents didn't come around soon.

Peace of Cake was disqualified