The Ratings War III: Republic of Heaven (Second Round Finals)
- Thread starter The Sorrow
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Yes Ma'am Ultrajoe...
Hey, while we wait for Bling Cat and Zemalac to finish their things, can we write some stuff for our characters in Purgatory? Or will that cause way too much confusion?
Hey, while we wait for Bling Cat and Zemalac to finish their things, can we write some stuff for our characters in Purgatory? Or will that cause way too much confusion?
I had a look over the matches, and I don't think I'm good enough to verse Msh straight up. I'll likely get my backside handed to me. Oh well, I'll give it a shot.
Other than that, it seems a good suggestion. Implementation is up to Sorrow, as ever.
Other than that, it seems a good suggestion. Implementation is up to Sorrow, as ever.
It can be switched, just say the word and other options are available.Labyrinth said:
EDIT: I'm making a new hierarchy to accommodate requests by people for matches. Certain matches are simply *musts* apparently and so the only way to ensure them is to have them in round one. I'll give it another day and then post up the new list, so PM me your requests (they need to also want the match) or concerns over the setup. When it goes live, there is no going back.
Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment: Emanuel Cazinto.
"I must say I was somewhat disappointed by the speech given by the man with the bleeding hands. Do you remember his name? Yes? No? Never mind, I don't suppose it matters. I was expecting a grand and momentous occasion, possibly with trumpets, and instead I saw a wounded man nervously addressing the assembly. Fah. And someone had told me that this man was the son of a god.
The wine they provided was good, I'll give them that. Almost as good as a Dom Derion from back home; it tasted of springtime and clouds.
I was, I'm afraid to say, slightly drunk when I was told that I would be fighting first.
It was a much more professional looking man with wings who stepped out and called my name, which I appreciated. I wouldn't want to be led to a duel by the stammering son of god. I mean, he seemed like a nice enough fellow, but I don't think he could have brought the proper amount of drama and dignity to the occasion. This fellow--his name was Gabrial, I think? Yeah. Anyway, he managed to treat the fight with the respect it deserved.
He directed me to a nearby portal. 'Who am I fighting?' I asked.
'You are fighting Drane, in the Underbelly,' he said. 'An earthly realm, corrupt and filthy.' Not much for lengthy conversation, was Gabrial. I shrugged and stepped briskly through the portal, though I realize now that I should have asked more questions.
On the other side of the portal was...
Hmmm.
How do I describe this?
Think of the largest city you have ever seen. Then expand that until it is so large that it can't expand any further and has to go up, then increase the height of every building. Then dump filth and poisonous waste over everything and sentence the most wretched, ugly and despicably pitiful criminals you can find to live there. Then wait ten years or so for it to fester. What comes out should look something like the place Gabrial called the Underbelly. Hostility and sullen aggressiveness was bleached into every cracked stone, and the windows gaped like sunken eyes. It was like the Dead Continent in the form of a city. Gabrial said it was an earthly realm, but that didn't fool me in the slightest; this place was obviously sunk deep in the pits of Hell. The sky was grey, the walls were grey, the people were grey, the streets were black, and my cape was bright, bright red. Needless to say, I felt very out of place. Attire fit for a pleasant afternoon in Chadrais was rather conspicuous on the black streets of the Underbelly; I stood out like a rose on a grey mountainside. The group of grungy, long-haired men lounging on the steps across the street from me sneered and grinned at my appearance from amid a forest of glass bottles. They didn't seem surprised to see me step out of a glowing portal in the middle of the street. Perhaps it had something to do with whatever they were smoking.
I saw the pearly glow of another portal fading from the mouth of an alley, and set my hand on the hilt of my sword. It was a perfect scene; the noble duelist in the middle of the street, waiting for the villain to emerge from the shadows; a clean stroke of crimson on a filthy grey page. I dearly wish that there had been a painter watching the battle. I think an artist would have greatly appreciated the moment.
I flicked the bloodred cape clear of my sword arm and waited for my opponent to appear. When he did it was a bit of a shock.
He stepped out of the alley like a beast out of a wizard's nightmare, all dark fur and eager claws. I had assumed, apparently foolishly, that if you were to fight to be a god of humans then you, well, you should at least look human, yes? The figure before me most certainly did not. He had the nose and ears of a bat, dark fur, needle claws and a thin sort of wing between his arms and his waist. He was quite possibly the ugliest being I had ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on. Of course, I hadn't met you yet.
No, I am not making this up. He was standing there in the mouth of the alley, looking like he'd been formed out of the shadow behind him, ugly as an orc and twice as deadly, real as you and I.
Skeptical bastard, you are.
The smoking men looked him over with a sort of languid curiosity and took deep puffs on their tattered cigars. One of them took his cigar out of his mouth and spoke, in a slow voice. 'Look everybody,' he said. 'It's the goddamn Batman.' The group collapsed in laughter.
The creature glared at them, somehow managing to appear more hideous than before. 'Tyrants and heretics,' it hissed, and took a step towards them. 'The name of God is not a thing to be lightly spoken. I shall cleanse this place of your sins.'
Well, I thought that was just wonderful. Another crazy religious bastard, just like Chosen. I sighed as I drew my sword. Chances were there wouldn't be any decent challenges or stylish moves in this fight.
He turned at the sound of the blade coming out of the scabbard.
'I suppose you would be Drane, correct?' I asked. Always best to make sure you're killing the right man. I learned that the hard way once, though I still maintain that it wasn't my fault. Bastard should've known better than to wear his hood up like that.
Anyway.
The creature turned to me. (Did I say that already?) It moved oddly, sort of disjointed and faster than it should have been. It wore no armor that I could see, not even something light to snag or slow a blade, but its claws were like needles and its eyes were alight with a madness that could have been dredged straight from the coldest slopes of Hell.
'Drane,' it said, and grinned horribly. 'Yes, I am called Drane.' He spread his arms, claws flexing eagerly.
I couldn't stop myself from smiling. This was going to be easy.
No, I'm serious. I mean, come on! Claws? Even a knife is better than that! You can throw a knife, you can parry, you can make the killing lunge if need be. You can make a knife dance. And don't even get me started on what you can do with a decent sword (such as my own, incidentally enough). But claws? You can't spin them, can't make them flow like water through the air, can't move them with anything approaching the necessary flexibility and you've got maybe an inch to parry with unless you want to block a sword with flesh and bone. You might as well just fight with your fists. At least then you won't feel the need to use your bloody useless claws. No, I was confident that this fight was going to be easy as a stroll in the park.
All right, all right, I was terrified. Does that make the story sound better? Yes, it is the truth, but the truth is nothing if it doesn't fit with the story. You know?
Fine, have it your way. Can I continue the story now?
Thank you.
After telling me his name Drane came at me, just like Chosen. Unlike Chosen, Drane was fast enough to be dangerous. I set myself en garde and advanced to meet his charge, on the assumption that the sooner I met him the sooner he would meet my blade. The smoking men cheered encouragement from the sidelines; for who, I don't know. Raw excitement and cold anticipation warred in my mind and gut.
Drane leapt, and flew.
I hadn't really thought that the membrane along his side would do anything. I mean, I was so busy being horrified at the rest of him that I hadn't yet figured out what it did. So I was quite naturally surprised when he glided over my head instead of running into my sword like he was supposed to. His claws slashed at my face as he went past and I dived forward, trying to get out from under him. He cut my plumed hat straight off my head and screamed in rage at missing my skull. I rolled out of my dive--well, I tried to, anyway. I had, perhaps, partook of a bit too much wine while waiting for my first battle, or perhaps it was simply the shock of losing my favorite hat. Whatever the reason, I ended up in an ungainly heap at the end of my roll, with Drane spinning and coming at me again. I made another inelegant dive to avoid him; he slashed at me but caught only the edge of my cape. I managed to get my feet under me this time and resumed the proper stance.
The men on the sidelines roared their approval from their collection of empty bottles. A few of them started chanting, 'Sword...man! Sword...man!' Others started cheering, 'Batman! It's the goddamn Batman!' They started laughing again, though I don't know what they found so amusing.
Drane took a moment to glare hatred at them before springing at me a third time. This time I was ready for him. He flew, I ducked low. His claws caught only air, but my sword found his wing. He screeched in rage and tumbled to the street, a thin line of blood misting the air behind him.
'Aha!' I exulted. 'Now we are on more equal footing, yes? Now you will see what a real swordsman can do.'
Drane sprung to his feet, and his eyes burned with fervor. 'You will pay for your sins,' he grated. 'In darkness and in pain, you will pay, and pay, and pay' and on the last word he sprung.
It was parry sixte, parry quarte, and a quick riposte that hastily cut off as his other hand swept in. I barely managed to block the claws with the guard of my sword, and then he slammed into me. My head cracked against the black street and I saw stars for a moment, stars that quickly resolved into Drane's burning eyes as he reached for my throat. I punched him in the face with the guard and rolled out from under him. Before I could get my balance back he roared and leapt high, as though he had forgotten his wounded wing and would fly again. I fell back and slammed into a lamppost I hadn't noticed, cracking my head again and solidly bruising my shoulder. He came down on me like the wrath of some bestial god, wing and nose streaming blood that fell like rain, claws seeking my life.
It was sword up, point out, arm bent slightly at the elbow to take the blow, and a sudden lunge as he dropped on me, just like I'd done a thousand times before to end a thousand other bouts. When I felt the impact I sidestepped, or tried to, forgetting that the only thing supporting my weight was the lamppost. I fell backward again, somewhat surprised, hearing a solid thud from where I had been standing moments before. I almost promised myself that this was the last time I would ever fight drunk before I remembered that I'd promised myself that only a few days earlier in Chadrais, so I obviously didn't need to make the vow again. I hit the ground without hitting my head, which was such a welcome change that I almost laughed aloud at having cheated fate in this small way.
It was only then that I noticed my sword was no longer in my hand. That sobered me up pretty damn fast, let me tell you. I sprung to my feet--all right, it was more of a wincing clamber, but you get the idea--and looked for my sword.
I found it in Drane. The sword had pierced all the way through his body, which was wrapped around the lamppost like a lover's embrace. As I approached he stirred, and slowly stood up.
After having my sword run through him clean through and intimately meeting a metal lamppost with his face, he was still alive. Persistent bastard, was Drane. He turned towards me and took a staggering step, but the sword coming out of his back caught the lamppost and twisted his movement, sending him roughly to the ground. He got back up and took another step, than another.
I drew my dagger and stood, watching him warily. He had my sword stuck straight through his chest and was bleeding from everywhere, but his claws were still sharp as needles and were still up and seeking my flesh. And now I only had a knife. I could try throwing it, sure, but I was never too good at that, and if I missed (or worse, if he just kept on coming anyway) I would be without a weapon. This required some thought.
He took another slow step, blood dripping from him like he'd just emerged from a red-tinted lake, and I backed away. The smoking men jeered and laughed from the sidelines. I have no idea how they were finding so much amusement in this, I really don't.
However, they did give me an idea. I turned and quickly strode over to where they were sitting. Unfocused eyes looked up at me from the steps and the forest of glass. Fumes from alcohol and whatever they were smoking almost overwhelmed me.
'Could I borrow this for a moment?' I asked, picking up one of the bottles.
'Sure, Sword-Man,' one of them said, grinning ear to ear. 'What's ours is yours.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'I think.' I gripped the bottle firmly by the neck and walked back to where Drane was still making his slow way toward me. His claws came up, wavering, and he said nothing through a mouthful of blood.
It was feint with the dagger, then catch the claws that came sweeping in and throw them out wide, step in close and swing as hard as I could manage. It wasn't a sword, but it worked well enough, and the bottle shattered against the side of Drane's furry head. He dropped without a sound.
I retrieved my sword--an exercise that required some amount of grunting and heaving to achieve--and tried to clean it on Drane's back before realizing that the velvety fur was covered in just as much blood as the blade.
I stepped back and surveyed the scene for a moment. The smoking men were silent for the first time since the battle had started. In fact, it seemed like the entire city had gone quiet and perfectly still. Almost perfectly still. Drane's chest still rose and fell with labored breaths, and the ends of his claws still twitched in unconsciousness.
He was still alive. Durable bastard, was Drane. I shook my head in wonder, and retrieved my hat.
When the plumed hat was properly in place, set just above the matted area of blood on the back of my head so it wouldn't get stained, I stood over Drane's body and planted my sword in the pave.
'Drane has been incapacitated,' I said, remembering the speech given by the son of god. 'Thus I claim victory.' I was suddenly too weary to say more. The pearly light of the portal swept up and around us, illuminating the black street with the light of heaven.
One of the smoking men turned to the others and gestured with his cigar, saying, 'Damn, man, this is some good shit here.' The others voiced emphatic agreement.
I found strength enough to doff my hat and take a bow before the pearly light swept me away."
The wine they provided was good, I'll give them that. Almost as good as a Dom Derion from back home; it tasted of springtime and clouds.
I was, I'm afraid to say, slightly drunk when I was told that I would be fighting first.
It was a much more professional looking man with wings who stepped out and called my name, which I appreciated. I wouldn't want to be led to a duel by the stammering son of god. I mean, he seemed like a nice enough fellow, but I don't think he could have brought the proper amount of drama and dignity to the occasion. This fellow--his name was Gabrial, I think? Yeah. Anyway, he managed to treat the fight with the respect it deserved.
He directed me to a nearby portal. 'Who am I fighting?' I asked.
'You are fighting Drane, in the Underbelly,' he said. 'An earthly realm, corrupt and filthy.' Not much for lengthy conversation, was Gabrial. I shrugged and stepped briskly through the portal, though I realize now that I should have asked more questions.
On the other side of the portal was...
Hmmm.
How do I describe this?
Think of the largest city you have ever seen. Then expand that until it is so large that it can't expand any further and has to go up, then increase the height of every building. Then dump filth and poisonous waste over everything and sentence the most wretched, ugly and despicably pitiful criminals you can find to live there. Then wait ten years or so for it to fester. What comes out should look something like the place Gabrial called the Underbelly. Hostility and sullen aggressiveness was bleached into every cracked stone, and the windows gaped like sunken eyes. It was like the Dead Continent in the form of a city. Gabrial said it was an earthly realm, but that didn't fool me in the slightest; this place was obviously sunk deep in the pits of Hell. The sky was grey, the walls were grey, the people were grey, the streets were black, and my cape was bright, bright red. Needless to say, I felt very out of place. Attire fit for a pleasant afternoon in Chadrais was rather conspicuous on the black streets of the Underbelly; I stood out like a rose on a grey mountainside. The group of grungy, long-haired men lounging on the steps across the street from me sneered and grinned at my appearance from amid a forest of glass bottles. They didn't seem surprised to see me step out of a glowing portal in the middle of the street. Perhaps it had something to do with whatever they were smoking.
I saw the pearly glow of another portal fading from the mouth of an alley, and set my hand on the hilt of my sword. It was a perfect scene; the noble duelist in the middle of the street, waiting for the villain to emerge from the shadows; a clean stroke of crimson on a filthy grey page. I dearly wish that there had been a painter watching the battle. I think an artist would have greatly appreciated the moment.
I flicked the bloodred cape clear of my sword arm and waited for my opponent to appear. When he did it was a bit of a shock.
He stepped out of the alley like a beast out of a wizard's nightmare, all dark fur and eager claws. I had assumed, apparently foolishly, that if you were to fight to be a god of humans then you, well, you should at least look human, yes? The figure before me most certainly did not. He had the nose and ears of a bat, dark fur, needle claws and a thin sort of wing between his arms and his waist. He was quite possibly the ugliest being I had ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on. Of course, I hadn't met you yet.
No, I am not making this up. He was standing there in the mouth of the alley, looking like he'd been formed out of the shadow behind him, ugly as an orc and twice as deadly, real as you and I.
Skeptical bastard, you are.
The smoking men looked him over with a sort of languid curiosity and took deep puffs on their tattered cigars. One of them took his cigar out of his mouth and spoke, in a slow voice. 'Look everybody,' he said. 'It's the goddamn Batman.' The group collapsed in laughter.
The creature glared at them, somehow managing to appear more hideous than before. 'Tyrants and heretics,' it hissed, and took a step towards them. 'The name of God is not a thing to be lightly spoken. I shall cleanse this place of your sins.'
Well, I thought that was just wonderful. Another crazy religious bastard, just like Chosen. I sighed as I drew my sword. Chances were there wouldn't be any decent challenges or stylish moves in this fight.
He turned at the sound of the blade coming out of the scabbard.
'I suppose you would be Drane, correct?' I asked. Always best to make sure you're killing the right man. I learned that the hard way once, though I still maintain that it wasn't my fault. Bastard should've known better than to wear his hood up like that.
Anyway.
The creature turned to me. (Did I say that already?) It moved oddly, sort of disjointed and faster than it should have been. It wore no armor that I could see, not even something light to snag or slow a blade, but its claws were like needles and its eyes were alight with a madness that could have been dredged straight from the coldest slopes of Hell.
'Drane,' it said, and grinned horribly. 'Yes, I am called Drane.' He spread his arms, claws flexing eagerly.
I couldn't stop myself from smiling. This was going to be easy.
No, I'm serious. I mean, come on! Claws? Even a knife is better than that! You can throw a knife, you can parry, you can make the killing lunge if need be. You can make a knife dance. And don't even get me started on what you can do with a decent sword (such as my own, incidentally enough). But claws? You can't spin them, can't make them flow like water through the air, can't move them with anything approaching the necessary flexibility and you've got maybe an inch to parry with unless you want to block a sword with flesh and bone. You might as well just fight with your fists. At least then you won't feel the need to use your bloody useless claws. No, I was confident that this fight was going to be easy as a stroll in the park.
All right, all right, I was terrified. Does that make the story sound better? Yes, it is the truth, but the truth is nothing if it doesn't fit with the story. You know?
Fine, have it your way. Can I continue the story now?
Thank you.
After telling me his name Drane came at me, just like Chosen. Unlike Chosen, Drane was fast enough to be dangerous. I set myself en garde and advanced to meet his charge, on the assumption that the sooner I met him the sooner he would meet my blade. The smoking men cheered encouragement from the sidelines; for who, I don't know. Raw excitement and cold anticipation warred in my mind and gut.
Drane leapt, and flew.
I hadn't really thought that the membrane along his side would do anything. I mean, I was so busy being horrified at the rest of him that I hadn't yet figured out what it did. So I was quite naturally surprised when he glided over my head instead of running into my sword like he was supposed to. His claws slashed at my face as he went past and I dived forward, trying to get out from under him. He cut my plumed hat straight off my head and screamed in rage at missing my skull. I rolled out of my dive--well, I tried to, anyway. I had, perhaps, partook of a bit too much wine while waiting for my first battle, or perhaps it was simply the shock of losing my favorite hat. Whatever the reason, I ended up in an ungainly heap at the end of my roll, with Drane spinning and coming at me again. I made another inelegant dive to avoid him; he slashed at me but caught only the edge of my cape. I managed to get my feet under me this time and resumed the proper stance.
The men on the sidelines roared their approval from their collection of empty bottles. A few of them started chanting, 'Sword...man! Sword...man!' Others started cheering, 'Batman! It's the goddamn Batman!' They started laughing again, though I don't know what they found so amusing.
Drane took a moment to glare hatred at them before springing at me a third time. This time I was ready for him. He flew, I ducked low. His claws caught only air, but my sword found his wing. He screeched in rage and tumbled to the street, a thin line of blood misting the air behind him.
'Aha!' I exulted. 'Now we are on more equal footing, yes? Now you will see what a real swordsman can do.'
Drane sprung to his feet, and his eyes burned with fervor. 'You will pay for your sins,' he grated. 'In darkness and in pain, you will pay, and pay, and pay' and on the last word he sprung.
It was parry sixte, parry quarte, and a quick riposte that hastily cut off as his other hand swept in. I barely managed to block the claws with the guard of my sword, and then he slammed into me. My head cracked against the black street and I saw stars for a moment, stars that quickly resolved into Drane's burning eyes as he reached for my throat. I punched him in the face with the guard and rolled out from under him. Before I could get my balance back he roared and leapt high, as though he had forgotten his wounded wing and would fly again. I fell back and slammed into a lamppost I hadn't noticed, cracking my head again and solidly bruising my shoulder. He came down on me like the wrath of some bestial god, wing and nose streaming blood that fell like rain, claws seeking my life.
It was sword up, point out, arm bent slightly at the elbow to take the blow, and a sudden lunge as he dropped on me, just like I'd done a thousand times before to end a thousand other bouts. When I felt the impact I sidestepped, or tried to, forgetting that the only thing supporting my weight was the lamppost. I fell backward again, somewhat surprised, hearing a solid thud from where I had been standing moments before. I almost promised myself that this was the last time I would ever fight drunk before I remembered that I'd promised myself that only a few days earlier in Chadrais, so I obviously didn't need to make the vow again. I hit the ground without hitting my head, which was such a welcome change that I almost laughed aloud at having cheated fate in this small way.
It was only then that I noticed my sword was no longer in my hand. That sobered me up pretty damn fast, let me tell you. I sprung to my feet--all right, it was more of a wincing clamber, but you get the idea--and looked for my sword.
I found it in Drane. The sword had pierced all the way through his body, which was wrapped around the lamppost like a lover's embrace. As I approached he stirred, and slowly stood up.
After having my sword run through him clean through and intimately meeting a metal lamppost with his face, he was still alive. Persistent bastard, was Drane. He turned towards me and took a staggering step, but the sword coming out of his back caught the lamppost and twisted his movement, sending him roughly to the ground. He got back up and took another step, than another.
I drew my dagger and stood, watching him warily. He had my sword stuck straight through his chest and was bleeding from everywhere, but his claws were still sharp as needles and were still up and seeking my flesh. And now I only had a knife. I could try throwing it, sure, but I was never too good at that, and if I missed (or worse, if he just kept on coming anyway) I would be without a weapon. This required some thought.
He took another slow step, blood dripping from him like he'd just emerged from a red-tinted lake, and I backed away. The smoking men jeered and laughed from the sidelines. I have no idea how they were finding so much amusement in this, I really don't.
However, they did give me an idea. I turned and quickly strode over to where they were sitting. Unfocused eyes looked up at me from the steps and the forest of glass. Fumes from alcohol and whatever they were smoking almost overwhelmed me.
'Could I borrow this for a moment?' I asked, picking up one of the bottles.
'Sure, Sword-Man,' one of them said, grinning ear to ear. 'What's ours is yours.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'I think.' I gripped the bottle firmly by the neck and walked back to where Drane was still making his slow way toward me. His claws came up, wavering, and he said nothing through a mouthful of blood.
It was feint with the dagger, then catch the claws that came sweeping in and throw them out wide, step in close and swing as hard as I could manage. It wasn't a sword, but it worked well enough, and the bottle shattered against the side of Drane's furry head. He dropped without a sound.
I retrieved my sword--an exercise that required some amount of grunting and heaving to achieve--and tried to clean it on Drane's back before realizing that the velvety fur was covered in just as much blood as the blade.
I stepped back and surveyed the scene for a moment. The smoking men were silent for the first time since the battle had started. In fact, it seemed like the entire city had gone quiet and perfectly still. Almost perfectly still. Drane's chest still rose and fell with labored breaths, and the ends of his claws still twitched in unconsciousness.
He was still alive. Durable bastard, was Drane. I shook my head in wonder, and retrieved my hat.
When the plumed hat was properly in place, set just above the matted area of blood on the back of my head so it wouldn't get stained, I stood over Drane's body and planted my sword in the pave.
'Drane has been incapacitated,' I said, remembering the speech given by the son of god. 'Thus I claim victory.' I was suddenly too weary to say more. The pearly light of the portal swept up and around us, illuminating the black street with the light of heaven.
One of the smoking men turned to the others and gestured with his cigar, saying, 'Damn, man, this is some good shit here.' The others voiced emphatic agreement.
I found strength enough to doff my hat and take a bow before the pearly light swept me away."
I had a lot of fun writing this. I fence IRL so I know exactly what Cazinto would do, I got to write his dramatic exposition being deflated by his audience, and, well, Cazinto is just fun to write.
Bling:I thought you'd want Drane alive at the end of it, seeing as you havn't explained most of his backstory yet.
Everyone else: questions, comments, dirty jokes?
Bling:I thought you'd want Drane alive at the end of it, seeing as you havn't explained most of his backstory yet.
Everyone else: questions, comments, dirty jokes?
I LIVE.
To business: I have my comp back and the next two matches planned out. As soon as I get the judging for this round back, I'll post them up.
I'm in favor of Ms. Ultrajoe's plan, but I will only have two matches going on at any one time to avoid a clusterfuck.
To business: I have my comp back and the next two matches planned out. As soon as I get the judging for this round back, I'll post them up.
I'm in favor of Ms. Ultrajoe's plan, but I will only have two matches going on at any one time to avoid a clusterfuck.
Timeline on those rounds? They'd need to be 1-week deadlines to finish in six weeks. 12 weeks between matches will drive people nucking futz, and 6 weeks is already pushing things. Perhaps, i say! 2 weeks for the first match, and one week for all subsequent matches (They'll have known and had time to write their entries, after all... unless they're lazy). So 7 weeks out the door, with people concievablt writing for 100% of that time, isn't bad.The Sorrow said:
I'll make the finalized version (before approval, that is) tonight, so if anyone wishes to change their placings, now is your last chance.Dastardos said:
Sorrow: I suggest you PM all players and direct their attention here so they can protest/request their lineups.
Eveyone: If you really itch to fight someone, your only sure-shot is round one, so speak up! They need to agree to the fight, of course.
Also, Sorrow: Still waiting on that description of purgatory.
Purgatory has been depicted as a grassy hill, a mountain, a forest, and probably many more things. I for one would enjoy a forest the most. For the record, the participants who are not doing battle can not see the ongoing battle.Ultrajoe said:
And yeah, like I have said, I'd love to fight vid20. I have PM'd him about it.
PURGATORY:
Purgatory is the flat top of a grand mesa. Its diameter is so great that one can walk for days from the center and not reach the rim. Throughout the mesa are scattered forests and the occasional lake.
POSTING: Open posting for plot-centric info is allowed and encouraged. Drum us up some backstory.
Purgatory is the flat top of a grand mesa. Its diameter is so great that one can walk for days from the center and not reach the rim. Throughout the mesa are scattered forests and the occasional lake.
POSTING: Open posting for plot-centric info is allowed and encouraged. Drum us up some backstory.
Devon Warner. I'm trying to emphisize more "Look what he did!" instead of "Look what he can do!"
That being said, I've been working on the intro for about a week, and it's still not up to my personal standards. So...here's the terrible, terrible rough draft.
Apologies for the terrible, terrible rough draft. I'm writing a better one now, but it's not coming along very well.
Also, Sorrow, feel free to kick me out for not having my intro up for two weeks.
That being said, I've been working on the intro for about a week, and it's still not up to my personal standards. So...here's the terrible, terrible rough draft.
Apologies for the terrible, terrible rough draft. I'm writing a better one now, but it's not coming along very well.
Also, Sorrow, feel free to kick me out for not having my intro up for two weeks.
Devon sighed. It was raining again. It wasn't as though it mattered; he wasn't planning on going anywhere, but it was still a bummer. He wished there was something to do, something he hadn't done a thousand times before; it might even be bearable if he could do something he'd done with someone he liked. Unfortunately, the community center was slow today. Besides him, there were maybe half a dozen other people in the corner, and they were all studying.
If there wasn't anything to do, maybe he would go back to his room and sleep. Not much else to do on a rainy day.
Devon heard the door open on the other side of the room; someone was calling him from across the hall. He wasn't sure who it was; it always bothered him a bit when he didn't know the names ot the his "friends".
Guy walked up to him. "Hey, Devon; we're playing a game of Rugby out in the back, you wanna play?"
"Sure." Devon replied. "Haven't got anything better to do."
"Cool. It's right out back, come when you're ready."
As soon as no-name was out of sight, Devon walked the other way. He wasn't interested in rugby; he liked the use of his spine.
Devon was soaked the instant he walked through the door; it was bad out here. He might just be better off staying inside until it cleared up. Then again, a little water-
"HELP! SOMEONE HELP!"
The scream tore through Devon like a power drill through rice paper. Unfortunately, he couldn't discern where they were through the rain.
Devon took a deep breath. "IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, YELL AGAIN! I CAN'T SEE YOU THOUGH THE RAIN!"
A blood-curdling scream rang through the air. It was coming from the left. Devon focused as hard as he could and saw something...massive
"DON'T WORRY! I'M COMING!"
Devon bolted, hearing other screaming voices as he did.
The Demon stood there, naked. It was about eight feet tall, at least for feet wide at the shoulders, covered in muscles like people used to be covered in armor. Spiral horns, shaped like those of a ram, covered its head. Its skin was the color of dried blood.
It was eating someone. Devon was sure it was the gy who had just asked him to play rugby. This...thing, was squatting there over a dead body, eating the entrails. A lesser man would have gagged. Or screamed. Devon, however, wasn't a lesser man; he was afraid, yes, but he knew that running around in circles screaming at the top of his lungs wouldn't do any good. Whatever this thing was thought it had no reason to be afraid of people, and Devon was sure that meant something.
At least half a dozen other people had gathered around the demon. Two of them were crying. One of them was vomiting.
Devon took a deep breath, braced himself. He was always taught that if he was going to die, he should die doing something worthwhile. If he distracted this...thing, it may give others the chance to get away.
"Hey, you! Fucknut with the horns!"
The demon turned. Its face, chest and hands were smeared dark red. Its face was that of a bulldog, and its voice was a combination of wood cracking on a fire and a panther's growl. "You are The Eighth, the Pillar of Sun?"
Devon wasn't looking at the demon; the demon's movement was the other's cue to get outta doge. Good. "If you're hungry, the cafeteria's right over there."
"He was a coward. You are not."
"Should I take that as a complement?"
"Answer my question."
"If I don't?"
"Please do not toy with me. Are you The Eighth, The-"
"I heard you the first time, big guy. I just have no idea what you're talking about."
"I will know if I feed on you. Come here."
"Sorry, but I like having extremities. And guts."
"I don't need to devour your flesh. A lock of hair will do."
"Why? Why me?"
The Demon nodded. "I understand your hesitation. There is a battle to be fought, a battle for the sea-"
"THERE IT IS! SHOOT IT!"
No less than two dozen police officers were firing at the demon, seemingly to no effect. The Demon lept at them, covering the distance easily and knocking them over like bowling pins. Devon bolted the other way, hoping he could draw the demon away from them.
It worked. The demon followed Devon, sparks flying from its hooves.
Devon had a problem, a problem that had followed him throughout his life; he was smart enough to know when to do something, but not smart enough to know how to do it. This was one such example. Running as fast as he could was, of course, a good idea. It served the dual purpose of getting away from the demon and getting the demon away from people. The demon, however, was much faster than Devon, and Devon was about to run into a brick wall.
With a fire escape on the second floor.
Devon may not have been good at thinking ahead, but he was observant, and he was good at thinking on his feet. An example of this; He saw the fire escape and decided to try something he saw in The Spirit.
Without breaking stride, Devon ran straight up the wall, grabbed the fire escape, and used his momentum fling himself onto the next level. It didn't work out as planned; the fire escape was slippery from the rain, and his feet wouldn't stay on as he pulled himself up. He managed to grab on to the rail before he fell to the ground, dropping his head just in time to see the demon crashing through the brick wall. "Never like in the movies..." Devon thought as he let go of the rail and fell gracefully back onto the pavement. As soon as he hit the ground, he bolted.
_________________________
The Angel was aghast. "A normal human, compete in this tournament? Are you mad?"
"This is no ordinary human. He is The Eighth."
"Even less reason to include him! Why not one of The Peacekeepers, they'd be more than willing-"
"We've tried. They won't come willingly."
"So we have to rely on a pillar?"
"So it would seem."
The angel thought for a moment. "Very well. I will find him, and convince him to join our cause."
"Make it so."
__________________________
Devon, dripping wet and gasping, was rushed into the hospital by three police officers. "WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY HERE! SOMEONE!"
A doctor came in and looked at Devon. "He looks fine."
"I don't care! Get him to saftey, now! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"
Devon would have replied something along the lines of, "You do know that this guy wants me, right? Just me? None of you, just me.", but he'd just run five miles straight; to say he was winded was putting it mildly.
"What happened to him?"
"We found him running away from the college, about three miles out. Seemed like he'd ran the whole way; he was hyperventilating, and we had to use a tazer to stop 'im. He's been breathing like that the whole way here." Tapping the doctor on the shoulder, the police officer to the left of Devon whispered, "So far as we know, this kid is who that thing is after. We're setting up everything we can, in case he comes into town, but..."
"I understand." the doctor replied. The doctor turned around, said something to another doctor. An oxygen tank was brought to Devon, a mask pressed to his face, and a towel wrapped around his shoulders. "Breathe through here. You'll be fine."
Devon took ten deep breaths. "How many people are-"
Devon was interrupted by his on vomit; however, the doctor was polite enough to answer through it. "Eleven. Two of them seem to have been partially eaten. Don't worry; the vomiting is normal."
"Yeah, that's reassuring." Devon said, wiping the remains from his mouth. "Any idea where the demon is headed?"
"You really think it's a demon?"
"I saw it eating a man alive. I saw it take seven clips without blinking. I saw it knock over a dozen people like dominoes, and run through a brick wall without pausing. I saw sparks fly from its feet when it ran. What am I supposed to think, doc?"
The doctor wrote something on a clipboard. "I don't know."
As the doctor walked away, another man walked up to Devon. "It is a problem, isn't it? Angel, Demon, beast or man, that thing is trouble.
The man put his hand on Devon's shoulder. Instantly, Devon felt refreshed; he could run another five miles, another ten miles if he wanted.
Devon looked up; the man speaking to him was tall, dressed in a white suit, and had platinum-blond hair that fell to his shoulders. "Hello, Devon."
"Umm...hey. Who are you?"
The man sat down next to Devon. "Let us call me a messenger."
"So you're an angel."
The angel smiled warmly. "Yes, I am. You are quick."
"3.8 GPA. I'd hope so."
The angel nodded. "Do you know why I am here?"
"Can't say I do. Common sense says you're here to stop that..." Devon gestured outside. "...thing, but I don't think that's it."
"That is part of it; several of my brothers and sisters are sending the demon home as we speak."
"That's the most interesting euphemism for death I've ever heard. It still doesn't tell me what you want with me, though."
The angel leaned forward, still facing Devon. "We need you to act as a...representative of sorts for us. The demon wanted the same thing."
"...a representative for what?"
"The heir to the Seat of God."
Devon sat back and sighed. "Is this a joke."
"Of course not."
"Then why me?"
The angel took a deep breath, thinking. "You, Devon, are a noble soul. You are inclined to help people, am I correct?"
"It's how I got here."
"You are also wise enough to know when to do so."
Devon nodded. "I'll go along with it."
"We...cannot represent ourselves. There are rules against it. However, we can have one such as you represent us." The angel looked deep into Devon's eyes. "I will not force you to do anything you do not wish to, but I will stress that this is crucial to the entirety of existence as you know it. All manner of beings are vying to replace The Lord; angels, demons, even simple men. Please, will you be our representative?"
"You took care of that demon. I guess it's the least I could do."
The angel nodded. "Thank you. Please, take my hand."
Devon did, and was engulfed in light.
____________________________________________
Brass lie face-first on the ground, bleeding from several wounds. He couldn't feel his arm, and he was sure his left horn was broken. It was these angel bastards...they had stopped him.
He had failed. He was "going back home" as it was so quaintly put to him. He had saved as many people as he could, and they used that against him. Bastards.
"Do you have any last words, fiend?"
Brass rose, using his one good arm, and spat in the angel's face. "I'll see you soon."
"Very well."
The angel raised his sword, and an exhasted demon closed his eyes. Somewhere, he heard the hum of a sheet of metal, and the sound of tearing cloth.
Name: Devon Warner
Age: 22
Alignment: Divine
Description: Devon is an athletic college sophomore.
Weapons: Devon was taught that his mind is his greatest weapon. While he has not gained a full grasp of what this means, he is quite intuitive, and is capable of using the environment and his opponent's weakness to his advantage.
If pressed, Devon does know something of hand to hand combat. Not enough to win against a supernatural opponent, but enough to hold his own against most normal men.
Armor: Devon has nothing but the clothes on his back.
Age: 22
Alignment: Divine
Description: Devon is an athletic college sophomore.
Weapons: Devon was taught that his mind is his greatest weapon. While he has not gained a full grasp of what this means, he is quite intuitive, and is capable of using the environment and his opponent's weakness to his advantage.
If pressed, Devon does know something of hand to hand combat. Not enough to win against a supernatural opponent, but enough to hold his own against most normal men.
Armor: Devon has nothing but the clothes on his back.
Right now i'm trying to work, forge the game lineup and process requests so that some people don't get royally screwed because the only person they have left to fight is Khedive Rex, and type another thousand words for Eviljoe (In the idylic peacefulness, he might just go crazy). Amid this, a critique of your work is embriotically coalescing. This is meant to be a reassurance, not a reprimand: Judgement is coming, and it likes to spank.Zemalac said:
I think I might volunteer to Judge and Organise RW4. Sorrow can write the story, rules and whatnot, it's his thread and game; after all. I just seem to have more time to gather things and more neurotic drive to sort them. That means Sorrow can play in RW4, one other judge can jump into the proceedings for once and I can sit back and relax... while going mad with secretarial paranoia.
Whatever Sorrow needs done, I like this game enough to be bothered doing. But for now, RW3!
Huzzah! The crickets have been silenced!
Also: Ultrajoe, I strongly urge you to play in RW4. Mostly because the character idea I have depends quite heavily on there being extremely intense, epic characters for him to work off of, and you're pretty dependable for providing those.
Also: Ultrajoe, I strongly urge you to play in RW4. Mostly because the character idea I have depends quite heavily on there being extremely intense, epic characters for him to work off of, and you're pretty dependable for providing those.
If I was to play in RW4, i'd need to take the next logical step in the overall narrative (that's right, it was all Just As Planned), and play a character who really doesn't count as intense or epic. I could make them intense and epic, but it wouldn't work. I'd just end up with a more squishy Eviljoe, defeating the purpose of differing between them.Zemalac said:
Please PM me match requests, or further talk of me in RW4, as this thread needs to settle into the game-setting as soon as possible.
his first moments in the land, and things were going badly
Ivan had a strange idea that he was the only being in this area with the intent of doing genuine good. If he were put in the position of god, the first thing he would do is ensure that beings of evil, such as a few of the combatants here (The being in the armor and the dark man in the suit scared him in particular). If it came right down to it, Ivan would be more than willing to give up his own chances of victory to ensure that these individuals don't get the throne.
It was enough to rattle Ivan to the very core. It only went to prove that people with completely good hearts were few and far between. Ivan's blade ached to be emerged, he couldn't stand just sitting while these villains were only a few feet away. He fought away these urges, the time for fighting would be upon him before too long, and it would be in his best interest to be at full strength when that time came.
So Ivan relaxed a bit, anxious to be out of this room and out on the battle field.
Ivan had a strange idea that he was the only being in this area with the intent of doing genuine good. If he were put in the position of god, the first thing he would do is ensure that beings of evil, such as a few of the combatants here (The being in the armor and the dark man in the suit scared him in particular). If it came right down to it, Ivan would be more than willing to give up his own chances of victory to ensure that these individuals don't get the throne.
It was enough to rattle Ivan to the very core. It only went to prove that people with completely good hearts were few and far between. Ivan's blade ached to be emerged, he couldn't stand just sitting while these villains were only a few feet away. He fought away these urges, the time for fighting would be upon him before too long, and it would be in his best interest to be at full strength when that time came.
So Ivan relaxed a bit, anxious to be out of this room and out on the battle field.
"so, what are we doing here?" the shrill voice was at odds with the body, a walking plant with a carven pumpkin head, which stood stock still on the bright green grass. a few of the other competitors glanced at Mort curiously, and then stared as a second voice emerged.
"SHHHH! geez, Joed, whisper! they're not meant to know we're not just one person"
the voices were dulled to a susseration on the edge of hearing, and most of the onlookers looked away, then moved on.
there were stranger things in this strange tournament. not many, admittedly, but they were there.
"SHHHH! geez, Joed, whisper! they're not meant to know we're not just one person"
the voices were dulled to a susseration on the edge of hearing, and most of the onlookers looked away, then moved on.
there were stranger things in this strange tournament. not many, admittedly, but they were there.