The Ratings War III: Republic of Heaven (Second Round Finals)

[Flying-Emu]

Spoiler: Proposition?

Perhaps we should encourage shorter entry posts and have all of the character dev-type stuff edited into the player's first post? It would significantly lower post count, make people more willing to read character dev, and keep the entries in a nice, tidy little spot.

 

[Lord Krunk]

Spoiler: Proposition?

Perhaps we should encourage shorter entry posts and have all of the character dev-type stuff edited into the player's first post? It would significantly lower post count, make people more willing to read character dev, and keep the entries in a nice, tidy little spot.

Spoiler

Fire Daemon already asked us to do that; Vid20 has most of them on his post, but otherwise no one else has taken heed to it as of yet. Please do put all of your entries in your first post; it saves us a lot of trouble in the long run.

 

[Ultrajoe]

-snip-

TL;DR - Ultrajoe, you should write a book. And everyone, can we please keep our character stuff concise?

That's the point Rex. I'm not angry or disappointed with the comp, it's just not the right place for what I intended to do, which is basically write a novel/narrative. I probably won't ever write the end to the Eviljoe thing, but if I was going to do it then RW3 just isn't the place. That's really the only reason I'm not playing in this RW. I'm still reading it, and if anyone needs help editing/organizing/whatever I'm still eager to make it work, I'm just not up for another round of RW1 or 2 (which was, as you say, epic in parts... just not enough to make up for the weeks of thumb twiddling... which are now months in RW3). Hell, if one of the judges wanted to play this time i'll gladly take up that job, but like you say it's frustrating to play an obstacle course where I'm trying to do some freestyle jazz.

In short, it's not you, it really is me. And baby, i'd like to think we can still be friends... with benefits.

Well, what are you reading my unspoiler'd OOC for? Get your butts to writing!

 

[rogueshadows]

Edited to make it bloody obvious that this is my post for the round.

the immortal and the fleeting;
or,
Crossed scythes ? crow and scarecrow​

Spoiler: ta da!

As the scarecrow?s name was called, it?s head whipped around to gaze soullessly at the announcer. It?s legs followed more slowly, and for a few moments it looked for all the world as if the stick figure were being held up by its head.

?Don?t jerk him around, Laea!?
?Oh, be quiet, Goldilocks.? An absurd nickname, as none of the Fae had hair, but it had stuck nonetheless. It fit Gwyn.

The scythe moved constantly as the scarecrow strode disjointedly toward the gate that would take it to its first test. It was an impressive contrast to the left arm, which hung loose and lethargic down to the torn jeans. The scythe seemed to be a different person, one that itched to reach out and touch people. Touch them inside, regardless of what organs were in the way. Joed was like that sometimes.

As they neared the portal, Laea turned Mort to see their opponent. He was a striking figure, in a black gi, a robe mostly used only in martial arts nowadays, not that the Fae would know that. All they saw was a mortal with dark hair and eyes, in a black robe, carrying a metal scythe that must have at least matched that belonging to Death himself. It was the scythe that caught their eyes, for though it was darker than any metal had any right to be, he carried it with an ease that spoke not only of many long years of practice, but of a feather-like weight. Oh, and then there was the wing.

?How does he fly with just one wing??
?It?s probably magic?
It never occurred to either of Doyle or Joed that maybe he couldn?t fly, after all, that?s what wings are for, but it did to Laea. She kept quiet in the pumpkin head, reasoning that they really knew nothing about this guy, so speculation was useless. It was one of her more mature moments, but she?d been having them ever since she took leadership of the swarm from the dying Kael.

She pushed the morbid thoughts out of her pretty little head, watching as their opponent nodded cordially in their direction. ?Nice guy, nodding like that. I almost don?t want to fight him. Ah, who am I kidding? This is gonna be fun!? She would have had Mort nod in return, but he didn?t actually have a neck. Still, it was a nice gesture on the part of their opponent. What had the announcer called him? Corbett. She grinned. Crow. Would he flee from the scarecrow? Heh. Ought to tell the others that one.

Now how did she know that was what his name meant? Never mind, Joed and Gwyn were starting an argument, and she had to stop it before they cut off one of Mort?s arms.

?I say he?s evil. Look at him! He?s wearing black! And no self-respecting angel would use a scythe!? Joed seemed to ignore that he himself used a scythe, but then again, he wasn?t an angel. Far from it, and proud of it.
?He?s got to be good. He?s got nice eyes? Gwyn was just repeating the same argument, but Laea was inclined to trust her as a judge of character. Still, the fighting had to stop.
?Enough. We?re going in. did anyone hear where??
?I think he said something about a narrow. And it?s in hell? Doyle was observant, but absentminded. Still, incomplete information was better than none.
?Yer silly, Doyle. Why would hell be narrow??

Mort stepped through the portal.

?D?you think we?ll win??
?Of course we?ll win. I mean jeez, his name?s Crow. How could we lose??
---

Corbett exited the portal into a hellish world, but that was to be expected. According to the announcer, he was in Kome?s Narrows, an eternal battleground. The hot air dried his mouth, and sharp rock would have torn his feet had he not been wearing sensible running shoes. Black, of course. What dim light there was seemed to filter down from above, but the source was invisible. At either side, two rivers of lava, solidifying on top and hissing constantly, immediately ruined one?s night vision no matter where one looked. And there were bodies, seemingly sinking straight into the rock. That was logical, after all, if too many bodies built up, they would cover the rock, protecting the damned?s feet.

All this Corbett noted while dodging wild swings of weapons. Some he blocked with the scythe?s haft, but most he simply avoided. There was no skill in these swings, just as there was no discipline in those doing the swinging. There was just a savage desperation, as if the souls here would rather kill than not kill, not because they enjoyed killing, but because of some other threat.

It saddened Corbett, as he watched the poor fools rush by, catching a glimpse of a face here and there, naked as the day they were born but for their swords, curved and spiked, serrated and barbed. Rusty implements designed not for clean death, but for pain, and to the bearer as much as the victim. And not all of them were male.

He dodged them, not out of any need to avoid conflict, but out of pity. That, and he reasoned that these were souls sentenced to this hell by their own sins, and as such, he shouldn?t interfere with God?s judgement. More than that, though, he was saddened that such a place was necessary.

He took to the air, hoping to leave his dark thoughts behind him as easily as the ground, but he couldn?t help but be further depressed by the scale of the place, the sheer number of souls desperately doing battle below him. He had to console himself that the souls here didn?t really make up much of the total at all, but he realised that just as he had no idea how many souls existed, he had no idea how many hells existed. Better to keep his mind on task, on what he must do if he were to make a difference on earth.

He wove a quick spell to keep out the stench of sulfur, the better to discern if his opponent was near. He had noticed as they passed each other that the scarecrow (he was certain it was a scarecrow ? it fit all the stereotypes) smelled of a strange mix of rotting vegetation, charred wood, and blood. In short, smelled of demon?s magic.

You learn to trust your senses over a lifetime as long as his, for instance, a flicker in the corner of his vision caused him to turn, and he saw the gangly figure of the scarecrow descend out of the murk like a specter, an instant before it hit him, screaming like a madman. Seriously. Only a madman could argue with himself.

?Get him!?
?Die, evildoer!?
?I told you, he?s a good guy!?
?Meet the scarecrow, Crow!?
?hurr? scarecrowcrow. That?s a good one?
?Shaddup and hit him!?

The gaunt figure hit him like a pile of sticks, and the left hand batted at him halfheartedly as they fell. The right hand still gripped the scarecrow?s scythe, which was pressed between them. Although it did stop Corbett from using his own scythe, he still had his hands. Confident he could retrieve his weapon if they were separated, the Crow swung each fist in turn into what should have been the scarecrow?s ribcage. They made disturbing squelching noises, and there was a snap as the spine-stick broke. Corbett tried a headbutt. That worked even better, scoring a long crack across the thing's forehead.

It came to Corbett that they were still falling, and the scarecrow was on top. Swiftly, he spread his wing, spinning them around. But Mort seemed to have some faculty of flight, even though Corbett couldn?t see any wings, or indeed feel any power leak, as would be the case if it were magic. However, instead of fighting the spin, Mort fed it, and they tumbled toward the ground. And still those shrill voices screeched at Corbett, and each other.

?What makes you think you have any chance against us. I mean me??

The man was so surprised by the question he found himself answering between. ?I have lived for over a thousand years. I know more magic than any human alive. I have trained in a hundred martial arts. And I have perfected a style that melds these all seamlessly together. I can do anything?

?Yeah, but can you win??
?That?s a lot of thinking to do for a little fighting?
?Heh. Yer old.?

Corbett was stunned. Not only was the scarecrow patently insane, he was also so? so? childish! This thing was deemed fit to be God? No! He wouldn?t allow it.

The left hand swung at him again, and he caught it by reflex. Twisting quickly, he broke the arm off at the elbow, throwing it aside. Unseen, Gwyn flitted off into the murk.

They traded blows, and Corbett was trying to decide which spell would be best in this situation, when one of Mort's legs found it?s way between his, and suddenly the one-winged man seemed unable to think of anything besides the pain.

?I didn?t do that! Did you do that?? Laea interrogated Doyle.
?Nuh, I din't touch nuthin'? he stammered.
?Of course you did! Good job too, he almost had us there?

Thus incapacitated, Corbett found himself on the bottom, and facing downward, when they finally hit the sharp rocks below.

There was a sickening crunch.

---

The Fae were not enjoying themselves. Mort was staggering, a hunchback with a missing arm, and their opponent had only a scratched face and an aching crotch. Gwyn flitted up, and joined Laea and Doyle in the head.

It was time to have some fun.

Mort hunkered down over Corbett?s prone body, so that Laea could whisper in his ear. ?You think you?re smart, eh? You?re not. You always do the exact thing that you think will work best. That?s predictable. And you have to think. That slows you down.?
?He?s not listening, Laea!?
?Typical!?
?Maybe we should wait for him to wake up??
?What? No! Just kill him now! Let?s go back to that nice place!?

One of Mort?s legs flung out wildly, kicking the Crow in the side.
?What?d you do that for, Doyle??
?I didn?t honest!?
?Gwyn??
?It wasn?t me!?
Laea checked to see that Joed was still on the right arm. He was.
?Look, it had to be someone in this head, and I know it wasn?t me!?
She was right, though it wasn?t any of the Fae that had kicked Corbett.

The argument was interrupted by a damned soul who ran past and struck Mort in the side. Swinging wildly, Joed retaliated, quickly mincing the poor man. A damp, foul smelling stain spread down to the scarecrow?s faded jeans, and disappeared in the waistline.

?He hit the bladder, damn him!?
?I think he?s already damned, Laea.?
?Ooh, poor Morty. He wet himself.?
Joed sniggered. ?Babying the scarecrow again, Gwyn??
?Be quiet, Joed. Laea, make him be quiet?
?Be quiet Joed, I think our good friend Crow is trying to say something.?
?Ooh, what?s ?e say??

Corbett had gathered his thoughts, and was whispering a quick healing spell to his loins.

?What?s that? I didn?t quite hear you.?
?Please speak up?
?Your call could not be connected. Please check the number and try again.?
?You do that so well, Joed?
?Oh, shut up.?

An idea struck Laea. She whispered quickly to the others, and Gwyn and Doyle left their places, buzzing off into the darkness.

Mort rose silently into the air, a veil of glamour descending to mask his presence.

---

Corbett rose, groaning from the ground. Blood seeped from a number of holes in his face; he quickly muttered another healing spell. Looking around, he saw a gaunt figure with a bulbous head staggering away, and he leapt. Aided by his wing, he sped across the intervening distance, and in moments his scythe was protruding from his opponent?s chest.

The image of the scarecrow shimmered and faded, revealing a poor soul who gasped and expired, his misshapen, rusty blade falling from his fingers. A tiny figure, bedecked in orange and blue spots, poked its tongue out at Corbett, and said in its high-pitched voice:

?Tricked ya!?

Suddenly two more scarecrow figures staggered forward, but Corbett saw through the guise now. Sidestepping, he ignored the two, who fell about hacking each other to pieces. ?Faerie magic!? he growled.

It explained everything. The multiple voices, the childishness. Corbett had met Fae before, and he knew, knew to the depth of his bones, that they were unfit for rule. They?d just die in less than a year, and then the whole tournament would have to be held again! On the positive side, he knew almost all there was to know about fairies. For instance, a little magic can sense their glamours, and a little more can pierce them.

And with his magic blocking out the usual smells of the place, the smell of urine had been growing in his nostrils. A drip, splatting on his shoulder, confirmed his suspicion. Before the Fae could realise he knew where they were, he spread his wing and leapt upward.

?Ohshitohshitohshit!?
?How?d he know we were here??
?We were dripping, idiot!?

Corbett swung his scythe and plunged it into the mannequin?s chest. Then he let go. Without the helpful anti-gravity enchantment, the scythe fell, dragging the scarecrow down with it. As they hit the ground, the scythe fell away, and Mort bounced to a halt not five meters from the lava.

?Quickly! Camouflage!? the Fae flitted about, frantically making their transport look like any other corpse.

Corbett walked calmly over. Having retrieved his scythe, he prepared for a destroying stroke, binding the destructive power of fire into his weapon.

?Abandon ship!? the Fae scattered, leaving poor Mort, alone and helpless, an empty shell.

Corbett turned to watch them go. When he failed to be transported back to purgatory, he decided that some sort of declaration was in order.

?I, Corbett Amadeus, declare victory over the Fae, by virtue of their having fled.?

Still nothing happened.

For the divine arbitrators had perceived something that even the Fae had not: there was still someone willing to fight the Crow.

Rising, creaking to his feet, Mort swung his scythe, intent on the destruction of the one who had caused him so much pain.

Corbett didn?t quite turn fast enough to avoid the blow, but instead of piercing his head, the blade flashed behind it, and he was merely knocked unconscious by the haft.

?Guys, guys! Look at Mort!? Gwyn was ecstatic. She flew toward him, hugged him fiercely. ?My little baby?s all grown up and killing people!?

For this was what Mort was doing, systematically destroying Corbett?s unconscious form. He had started on the wing, but having a broken back and no left arm is not a particularly efficient state to be in. before he had even removed many feathers, Laea was back, and had retaken control of his major functions. Watching her personal machine doing it?s own thing was unnerving, and she was determined to put a stop to it.

?That?s great. Let?s get out of here. Doyle, go pick up our left arm, please.?
?Sure Laea.?
?Joed, what are you doing??
?I want to see if he?s got anything cool to steal.?

At that point the portal opened.

?Hurry up! Just grab some feathers if it?s so important!?

Doyle brought the arm, and, the battle over, Mort?s injuries started to knit back together. ?I think he?s thirsty? Gwyn declared.
?Yeah, I get that feeling too.?
?Creepy, innit??
Laea kept quiet. Much like many humans, she was quite proficient at ignoring things she didn?t want tothink about.

Mort, though, wouldn?t go away. In the darkness of what passed for his mind, he settled back, content. The pain-bringer was gone, the loving one was back, and he could relax and let the bossy one drive. He was patient. His time would come.

---

The portal closed on the sulfurous infernal battlefield, but Corbett still lived.

Whether he would wake before being subsumed into the ground was a different matter.

not as good as i'd like, but hey, what're deadlines for?

i should have spent more time setting up the ending, and i could've taken the old fogey vs exuberant youths thing further, and... there were a lot of things pulling this fight in different directions. i had this one image of corbett holding a legless, scythless mort over the river of lava, and i would have loved to work that in, but i logged on this morning (from uni - but that's annother story) to realise i had one day less than i thought, so here we are.

comments and criticisms good, especially specifics. what would you have done differently?

and... Mort and the Fae! as a band! that's an awesome idea (i think it was yours, ultrajoe?) i might just have to draw a picture... i see a scythe-guitar, and rather shrill backing vocals...

 

[Dastardos]

Micah vs Malcolm​

Sprinting Malcolm turned the corner of the lobby. The angel Gabriel called his name for the next bout. Securing his weapons he scurried down the hall, carelessly bumping into God.

"What are you doing here?" Malcolm stuttered as he started to sweat in anticipation.

"I wanted to offer you some extra motivation. You decided to enter this only because I asked you to. Now I'll give you something to fight for. If you take first in the tournament and become the new God of the Earth, I will resurrect your family."

Malcolm stood there, dumbfounded in disbelief, as his mind wandered to the day of the accident. Seeing his wife crushed under the debris in the parking lot. Thinking of these events again, it almost brought tears to his eyes. "Are you serious?"

"I wouldn't lie to you. I need someone I can trust in a position of such importance. Now get going."

"No. Not yet. What do you mean you can resurrect them?"

"I mean I can resurrect them. Bring them back to life."

Laughing in disgust Malcolm retorted, "Why didn't you tell me this earlier? Why didn't you do this earlier?"

"Because I needed to make sure you would keep working for me. I needed this as a secret weapon to motivate you, if anything of extreme importance came up, or if you tried to quit."

"You're despicable. Keeping something that means so much away from me, after all I've done for you all these years! All the people I've killed, for you, and you hide this from me?"

"I did it in the best interest of the world"

"The best interest of the world? What about the be-"

"Malcolm Lynch report to Gabriel by the portal now or you will be disqualified" shot out over the intercom.

"We'll finish this later" Malcolm slurred, as he turned to run to the portal. Arriving at Gabriel, the small man began to speak.

"You took your god damn time. You will be fighting Micah Miller in Nirvana. Let me give you a word of advice though, don't enjoy the environment to much."

Grinning in confusion, Malcolm jumped through the portal. On the other side was the frozen tundra. Snow flooding the ground, and covering everything in sight. Walking around, snow pelted his face and covered him. Shivering Malcolm felt as if he could freeze to death. A few minutes later, the snow started to melt off of his body, as he continued to walk. The ground shifted from being covered in snow to a barren wasteland. Cacti sprouted out of the ground around him, vultures soaring through the sky, and scorpions scoured the desert. Sweating bullets, Malcolm finally arrived at Micah.

The man stood tall, his feet buried in the desert sands. His blond hair flew freely in the arid winds. He was draped in a suit of chain mail, with plate mail covering his shoulders and joints. In his right hand he held a sword. The blade looked shoddy and probably was custom made. Attached to his left arm was a bulky shield that looked like it weighed the left side of his body down. Sweat dripping down his forehead, Malcolm steadily approached him.

Micah started to chuckle at the sight of Malcolm. "This fight looks like it will be easier than turning undead and casting judgment."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Obviously you don't play WoW."

"WoW?"

Sighing Micah explained, "World of Warcraft, the greatest game ever created."

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind I'm not going to waste my time on this. Can we hurry up and get this over with? I wanna get back to my orc orphan, its children's week you know."

Sighing Malcolm lowered his head and brushed his hand through his hair. "Please, what are you talk-" before he could finish his sentence the man was screaming like a harpy and sprinting towards him. "-ing about..."

Reaching his hand into his jacket, he pulled a cross out and threw it at Micah. Micah gracefully pulled his shield up, deflecting the cross. As Micah grew closer, Malcolm stood completely still. Micah screamed like a blood thirsty barbarian and when he was no further than ten meters away Malcolm pulled out his pistols and started rapidly firing. The bullets soared through the air, being deflected by the man's shield, or absorbed into his thick armor.

As Micah reached him, he swung the sword down. Diving out of the way, the blade slid across Malcolm's right arm. Blood erupted out of the gash like a volcano, dripping onto the hot desert sand, and almost instantly drying.

Screaming in pain, Malcolm leapt back onto his feet. By the time he firmly planted his feet on the ground, Micah was already charging at him again. Malcolm wrapped his undead hand around his cross. Gently tapping the button, the blade shot out. Holding it in front of him, he placed himself in a defensive stance and watched the man charge him.

Micah arrived at him and swung the blade down hard. Countering the attack, Malcolm swung low at his legs, the blade chopping into Micah's right one. Micah fell to the ground in pain. Malcolm swung his pistol out and positioned the barrel right on Micah's head.

"I'm sorry." Malcolm muttered as his fingered inched away from the trigger. Pulling the trigger, the bullet skidded by his ear as a mountain rose from underneath Micah. The bullet landed in a dense sheet of snow, as the mountain increased in height, to about thirty feet.

Standing at the top, Micah pulled out his handgun and started firing on Malcolm. Running in circles, he managed to dodge the bullets, until one hit Malcolm in the gut. Falling down he landed in a newly formed lake. As his body sunk like a rock in the body of water, he fell against the lakebed. His body lay motionless on the lakebed, as he slowly drowned.

Micah stood at the top of the mountain, aiming his gun at the lake. He patiently awaited his foe to resurface, but as the lake stayed calm, Micah realized he wouldn't. Holstering his gun, he dove off into the lake. Swimming to the bottom he found Malcolm's body. Placing his arm around Malcolm's chest, Micah tightened his grasp on him, and dragged his body quickly to the shore. Malcolm lay there, unconscious, and not breathing. Micah's face quickly turned sour, as he dug his fingers into Malcolm's lips, and pinched his nose shut. Micah pushed his mouth up against Malcolm's, and made a seal, and began chest compressions.

A few minutes later, water gargled and shot out of Malcolm. His eyes reopening, Micah pulled his blade and put it against Malcolm's neck. Slowly pulling himself onto a knee, Malcolm pulled his hand into his jacket, and applied pressure to his gunshot wound. The sword's blade pressed lightly against his neck, and Micah began to speak.

"I do not wish to kill you. You performed in a fine manner, but I have come out on top. I wish that you will surrender, so that I may spare your life."

From underneath them, the ground started to shake. Breathing heavily Malcolm lay in thought. His voice hushed, and scratchy he asked, "How do you kill... that which is already dead?" And from out of his jacket he flung a cross.

The cross plunged deep into Micah's neck, crimson blood pouring forth in gushing torrents. Screaming, Micah's blade slipped from his grasp as he stumbled backwards, his legs frantically trying to keep up with his body. The ground began to tremble underneath Malcolm's feet and, within moments, a jagged, charred, mountain of fire tore itself tortuously from the Earth. The air, reeking of sulfur, assailed his senses, flaying his eyes, scouring his nostrils and singing his tongue. Despite the agonies of his body, Malcolm kept his steely gaze fixed on his mortally wounded foe, Micah's features thrown into a demonic grimace by the fiery light of the volcano's molten core. Getting on his feet, Malcolm charged the dazed Micah. Sinking his teeth into Micah's throat, Malcolm tore a bloody chunk of soft, warm, and oh so delicious living flesh, savoring the carnage that now soaked his mouth and painted his jaws, licking the excess blood from his face.

Screaming blood flowed rampantly from his neck. Still stumbling backwards Malcolm muttered, "You should have killed me when you had the chance." Raising his leg high into the air, he kicked Micah in the chest. Micah shot off the rim of the volcano and started to plummet down into the fiery inferno. Landing in the fiery blaze, his body started to burn and incinerate in the smoldering hot temperature.

Turning around Malcolm waited for the volcano to plummet. Slowly it sunk down into a lake. As it was swallowed into the ground, Malcolm slid down the side, falling into the lake. Swimming to the shore, he got onto a grassy prairie. Blood pouring from out his gut, he staggered towards the newly formed portal, a trail of blood marking the path behind him.

Spoiler: So...

That's my first battle post. I hope you all enjoyed it. I do, however, beg for your criticism. Anything from I liked it to I hated it I would love to hear. I want to know your thoughts and what you think of it, and if you have any questions.
Thanks.

 

[Lord Krunk]

Spoiler: A question...

So, what's going to happen to me now, now that Ultrajoe has forfeited?

Do I progress to the next round by default, do I get put up against someone else, or do I write my entry anyway?

 

[mshcherbatskaya]

Spoiler: So...

That's my first battle post. I hope you all enjoyed it. I do, however, beg for your criticism. Anything from I liked it to I hated it I would love to hear. I want to know your thoughts and what you think of it, and if you have any questions.
Thanks.

Spoiler: Alrighty then

I would have liked to have seen a little more development on the emotional angle, especially in the section where God blackmails your character with the return of his family. Sure, we can see that your character is pissed, but tell me more about it so that I understand what makes your character's reaction something other than generic outrage. Use the situation to help me understand your character from the inside.

Additionally, you bring this rather major plot point up and never address it again. Wouldn't your character approach the fight differently now that something truly important to him is on the line?

You have a good skeleton here, it could just use a little more flesh on it.

The Children's Week joke made me smile. Actually, the whole WoW dialogue made me smile.

 

[Ultrajoe]

Spoiler: A question...

So, what's going to happen to me now, now that Ultrajoe has forfeited?

Do I progress to the next round by default, do I get put up against someone else, or do I write my entry anyway?

Write the entry, is my guess. If you want I can post the drafts I had of mine, we can play 'Who likes spelling errors!?'. Actually... that means Eviljoe dies if you get to write your entry. He can't die. Not like that! Ah, fuck it.

I have no idea what you should do, that's not my department (my department is singing the star-wars theme and editing every gore-related word in people's posts to be the names of fruit. It ends up quite spectacular). If you want the drafts, PM me.

 

[Higurashi]

Spoiler: A question...

So, what's going to happen to me now, now that Ultrajoe has forfeited?

Do I progress to the next round by default, do I get put up against someone else, or do I write my entry anyway?

You can not progress without posting your entry. It has always been thus. Again, I must implore people to PM more and post less here, as so much of this talk belongs there and not here.

 

[SargentToughie]

Well, folks, I finally fought away my nasty case of the "But that would take to long!"s and threw all of my prestory in with my intro post

I feel good inside, hooray!

 

[rogueshadows]

...all of my into story is in my into post...

...all 1 part of it...

 

[Mookie_Magnus]

Micah Miller vs. Malcolm Lynch: Killing That Which is Not Alive.​

Spoiler: My Epic Battle

Micah appeared in a large flat plain, covered in grass, and unbearably hot. It had to have been at least 95 degrees Fahrenheit. Suddenly, it began to rain, then it became chillingly cold and the rain turned to ice. Micah turned around and looked for his opponent.

"Let's see, they said my opponent was Malcolm Lynch..." Micah said to himself. "Where could he be?"

A bullet whizzed by Micah's ear, and he turned around and saw his opponent.

"Glad that I have your attention." Lynch said in his accent. His grey decaying flesh being pierced by the tiny ice shards from the frozen rain. The rain then turned to large hail, which clinked against Magnus's armor loudly.

"I never expected to be fighting a zombie... Then again, I never thought zombies would really exist... or that I'd be competing to be God of Earth."

"Nor did I expect to die in a reactor explosion or end up working as an assassin for our Lord. It is strange how life can catch you by surprise."

"Or rather in your case, un-life. Alright, let's start this." Micah drew his sword and held it at arm's length, facing the undead as the hail turned to bright sunlight.

Alright, he's a zombie, and from the looks of things... he's like a Resident Evil zombie... slow moving. If I can keep up a flurry of fast paced attacks, without giving him time to retaliate, I can take him down.

Micah lunged at Malcolm, sword held out and impaled him in the stomach. Mr. Lynch just smiled as he stepped backward and the sword slid out of his torso, covered in coagulated blood. Lynch drew his guns and fired at Micah, who blocked the bullets with his shield, leaving it pockmarked and dented.

The flatland changed to hills and trees, as the weather grew colder. Micah grabbed a hold of one of the branches as the trees grew to great heights. He sheathed his sword and grabbed his handgun, he aimed the weapon downward and opened fire upon Malcolm, the bullets whizzing into the undead priest's face. Micah emptied an entire clip into the zombie, leaving him on the ground, still alive, only now more angry. Micah reloaded his gun and felt the ground beneath him quiver. The trees retracted into the ground, and the hills became rocky outcroppings perched over an ocean of sand and rock.

Malcolm pressed the button on his cross, extending his own blade; which he pointed at Micah. The two crossed swords and began to fence.

"Tell me," Micah asked his opponent, slashing at the zombie's neck. "Why are you in this competition anyway? If you are dead, then what reason do you have to become a God?"

"I do as my Lord commands me to." Mr. Lynch replied, blocking Micah's attack. "I am in his service and I bide by his command. What about you? What makes you join this madness, being so young, you should be experiencing your life, not risking your death in this fool's game."

"To be honest..." Micah began, and parried a lunge made by the corpse. "I guess I just thought that If someone like myself was in charge of Earth... maybe I could fix it. I don't like to watch as the world consumes itself, but each day I must. I suppose that is one of the reasons I escape the world through video-games. In the virtual world, there is always a solution to the challenges you face, no matter how difficult. It's not the same in everyday life, no matter how much I want to believe it."

Micah drew his pistol, jumped backward, and shot at Malcolm's torso. The sound of broken glass and sizzling flesh echoed throughout the plane, which had changed into an empty cave, with the night sky clearly visible overhead. One of Micah's bullets had broken the bottles of acidic holy-water that Lynch had on his person, eating away his decayed flesh.

"Requiescat In Pace, Mr. Lynch. Rest in peace..." Magnus fired upon the zombie's exposed entrails, the bullets slicing through the decaying organs. A foul smell came forth from Malcolm, as a noxious fume could be seen emanating from his liver. Micah fired another single bullet at Malcolm's liver, causing it to burst violently and explode. Micah braced himself against his shield as the ground trembled from the explosion.

Micah gazed upon the fallen corpse, and walked up to it. The charred body twitched, and gargling sounds came from the throat of the incinerated zombie. Micah raised his blade over his head, and with great force, brought it down upon Malcolm's head, cleaving his brain in twain and killing him.

"I declare victory over Malcolm Lynch, on the grounds that he is no longer living nor undead."

A portal opened and Micah stepped through; bruised and exhausted, but victorious.

Spoiler: OOC

Sorry for the last-minuteness, it's approaching finals week and I had like ten exams that I had to take... Man getting ready for college is tiring. Anyways... I hope you enjoyed it. We'll see which one of us is the victor.

 

[Dastardos]

Disregard

 

[RagnorakTres]

<spoiler=OOC>Point the first: I believe I just got owned. Or possibly pwned. Or, given the extent of the ownage, (Oh God, someone shoot me for this) qwned. That battle post was much better than mine, at least to my eyes. So I'm not holding out much hope that I'm gonna make it into the second round. *shrugs* Que sera sera. That's what I get for not sleeping on the story and re-editing it in the morning.

Point the second (really a question, but whatevs): Does anyone strenuously object to me possibly doing a manga/comic of the tournament? I won't if anyone seriously objects, but I'd like to try to test my writing and pacing abilities (I'm going to leave the drawing to one of my friends: I can draw stationary objects. A human is never a stationary object. Plus, I've never really been good at proportions and perspective, especially with irregular shapes such as humans.) more and, as point the first says, I have doubts that I will make the second round.

Point the third: This will be the amalgamation post for my character. One question, should I put my battle post here as well?<spoiler=Character>Name: Corbett Amadeus (Latin; translates literally as "the black crow loved by God")
Gender: Male
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 240 lbs.
Apparent Age: 25
Actual Age: Around 2500
Characteristics and Oddities: Corbett's most prominent feature is his namesake, the great black-feathered wing that sprouts from his left shoulder blade, which gives him the power of flight. His second feature is his lifespan: it is almost immeasurable. As long as he is never killed in the same fashion twice in a row, he will revive. His third feature is his scythe, which never leaves his side and is in fact a source of much of his power. This all-metal scythe is a normal scythe to all appearances, but has the same number of molecules as a steel wall that is 6'x6'x6' and is thus quite a bit heavier, as you can imagine. He has enchanted it so that it is infinitely light to him, simply because he finds it tiring to constantly run at full strength.
He was born in the time of the Roman Empire and has, in that time, mastered many martial arts, magic, and skills useful in battle. You never quite know how he's going to hit you next: if it'll be a simple straight punch, a slash with his scythe, or a devastating spell that leaves your mind and soul on the brink of some chasm of madness never before reached by humanity. His very unpredictability is what makes him such a strong fighter.<spoiler=Aditus>
Aditus (Entrance)
The apartment building was old and dingy, mostly unused anymore. But still, on this crystal clear winter night in Chicago, with the skyline breaking the starscape like glass, a 3rd floor light burned.

The room was small, a huge, antique bookcase covering one wall, filled with well-worn books, making it feel even smaller. The room was filled with the soft, yellow light of candles in stands spaced around the room. The carpet, deep and soft, enhanced the feeling of coziness. A recliner was settled in the middle of the room, facing the surprisingly modern (given it's surroundings) computer setup. This was a traditional bachelor's room. The bachelor, dark of hair and eyes, wearing a black gi and what appeared to be a long black cloak, was speaking on a cell phone. "Thanks "K". You're a lifesaver. I'll get that code finished and get back to you soon."

"Don't rush yourself, "C". You're good, but you're only just beginning. Give the language time to sink into your brain. Assimilate it and you will become a great hacker."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, "K". I gotta go. I got company." As he spoke another man, fair of demeanor and color, appeared with the quiet *chuff* of displaced air. He seemed mildly surprised that "C" knew of his presence so quickly. Then he settled himself on the table next to the computer, awaiting "C"s attention. He got it, but not in the fashion he expected. "C" waved him over to the chair and brought out a folding chair for himself. His "cloak" twitched and rustled as "K" spoke, flexing and opening, revealing itself to be a large black-feathered wing.

"Alright. Any idea when me and "I" can expect you over for dinner?"

The bachelor's voice grew deeper, and he seemed more weary, as though his life was simply the repeating of cycles. And he was bloody tired of it. "I get the feeling that it won't be for a while, Karen. Tell Irene I'm sorry."

"Jeez, Crow, you don't have to get all serious. It's spooky when you do."

"I know. It's not intentional. I'll see you later. 'Bye."

Karen seemed hesitant to hang up. "...'Bye. And it's not final, you understand?"

"Yep." Crow sighed as he closed the phone and gazed balefully at his uninvited guest.

"Wow, Corbett, it seems your skills were not overrated! It's rare that a mortal, even one as...special as yourself, should sense my presence that quick."

"People displace air. You don't live several thousand years without noticing what a room with a being in it feels like. What do you want, Mr....?" Crow's manner was tight and unfriendly, though his words were nothing if not polite.

"Please, please, call me Mike. Short for Michael. I'm the Angel of Battle, but I hate the title. Heck, I hate formality in general. It's something Gabe just hasn't been able to drill into me. Anyway, we up there in the Front Office..."

"Woah, woah, woah." Crow burst in. "You show up in the middle of the night. You come into my living area uninvited. And you have the gall to say you are an angel? An Archangel at that? Have you the slightest idea what kind of thin ice you are treading here?"

"Yes. Yes I do. You are Corbett Amadeus, born June 30th, 300 B. C. You died for the first time on the field of battle, at the age of 25. Your sense of morality is strong, and you attempt to right every wrong for every person you meet. You have lived so long that nothing fazes you. Your unique abilities make you extremely suited to taking on the more powerful echelons of evil, and that's a very good thing as they also make you a target. You have even successfully killed a demon. A minor one, but a demon nonetheless. Your resistance to death is extraordinary. That wing of yours seems to have the properties of a force field. And on top of that, you have so rarely quit training that you now seem to be skilled in all areas of combat operations. You are the perfect operative. And you are my choice for the tournament I am about to explain to you."

"I need proof that you really are Michael, the Angel of Battles. You may have pulled off the cleanest teleportation I have ever had the privilege of witnessing, but that doesn't mean you have divine backing. You could be a minor magician on a good day. Or a truly powerful wizard on a really good day."

Michael started to answer, but a look of confusion passed over his face before he could open his mouth. "Wait, that doesn't make any sense. Wouldn't a more powerful magician have an easier time teleporting than a less skilled one?"

"You'd think so wouldn't you? For some reason, more powerful magic users have very flashy entrances. There's so much power that some of it leaks on reentry to the dimension and shows itself as sparks or puffs of smoke or, in extreme cases, such as Merlin, matter itself: doves, popcorn, and the like. Merlin's was a whole bunch of clocks winding backwards accompanied by a descending whistle, not unlike a bomb falling. We never did figure out why...Anyway, keep going with your story."

"That's a quick turnaround. Weren't you going to test me?"

"I just did. You passed. A magic user would have known that and a demon would have pretended to know. Only an angel would ask."

"You're so sharp you'll cut yourself!" laughed Michael. "As I was saying, we're having a bit of difficulty at the moment. One of our own seems to have been...corporeally inconvenienced? Stupid Gabriel with his stupid bureaucracy and his stupid vocabulary, can't even be straight with the messenger's Oh, no, have to be..."Michael muttered to himself as he rifled through a dictionary that he pulled out of his pocket. "OK...the upshot is that he's dead. Gone. Finished with his post. Which happened to be the, quote, "God of Earth," endquote. You see, Corbett...Can I call you Crow? It seems shorter, less stiff. Even we up at the Front Office don't speak Latin anymore."

"Do as you wish, Angel of Battle. But I reserve the right to call you anything and everything I can think of." said Corbett with a mischievous smile.

Michael laughed again. It was a light, jovial sound, reminiscent of bells on a clear day. "Fair enough, Crow. Fair enough. Anyway, as I was saying..."

The two of them sat long into the night, discussing the current situation in the Republic, as well as reminiscing of old battlegrounds and places long forgotten to everyone else but history professors and dusty old texts.

After the night spent reminiscing, Corbett came to a decision. "I believe I shall join you, Michael. It seems a worthy cause, and, if I understand what you are saying, I will be able to right many of the wrongs in this world if I win. Plus, to quote an old Hobbit, "I believe I need a holiday." Heroing is not as black-and-white as it once was. Increasingly, the enemies I face are either clinically insane or convinced that what they are doing is right. This is a world of grays, and I am a being of white. A break to fight a battle I know I am in the right in will be a welcome change. I have only one question: If I die in this battle, will I be returned to my corporeal self, or will I watch the rest of the tournament from the Afternow?"

"It all depends, Corbie. It all depends." replied Michael, for the first time showing the weight of the many battles and years on him. A heaviness of demeanor came over him. "I don't know what the Big Man's plan for losers is. I'm not that close to him, though I used to be, before he went and had a son and made the Messenger his man as opposed to the Fire. I ain't bitter, but it weighs on me: did I do something to displease Him? I may never know. Oh well!" Michael returned to his cheerful self. "Live and let live, as that famous line goes! Shall we?" he asked as he opened the door to Corbett's apartment.

Beyond was not the usual dingy hallway, but rather a piercing blue wall of light. Corbett took one last look around the apartment, his gaze lingering on the phone abandoned on the table next to the computer. He reached over and crushed it in one hand. Then he shut the computer off and moved from one candelabra to the next, blowing them out one by one. As he neared the last one, the one near the door, he pulled at a book on the shelf. It came away grindingly, as though it resisted his touch. When he released it, it sprang back to it's place, but the wall next to the door opened, revealing a gleaming metal warscythe. "I have not touched you in many years, old friend. This is perhaps our last foray. I almost hope it is."

He seemed about to leave, but he stopped in the doorway. He turned back to the room and leaned his scythe carefully against the wall. He spoke, and he seemed to pick his words more carefully than the situation called for. "Karen, Irene, I hope I will return to this world able to help you and your kind better. May your lives be filled with peace, at least until my return. Fortasse fortuno Deus te." He picked his scythe back up, slung it across his back, and walked into the light with some regrets, but no fear.
Terminus Aditum
As I walk this lonesome valley...
Corbett's mind wandered. How was he alive? He remembered the feeling of the blade piercing his heart, of his life ebbing away. Then nothing, until he awoke in the barracks with the remains of his squadron taking turns watching him. His first thought was Why is my bed so uncomfortable? It's like I'm half lying on a pedestal. Then he felt the "pedestal" move, and he realized he had grown another limb. The shock frightened him back into an unconscious state.

When he awoke again, his friend Julius was sitting by his bed. "How are you, my friend?"

"I...I don't know. I think I'm dead. Is this the afterlife?"

"No, Corbett, you are not dead. By all rights, you should be, but you're not."

"What is this...thing at my back?"

"It is a wing, one black as night and feathered as a bird. You have been blessed by Jupiter, Corbett!"

"Feels more like a curse. Did...did we win?"

"Yes. Thanks to you. You were cut down after crossing blades with the enemy commander. He was...surprised to find you rising to meet him again. You slew him in one great slash, from shoulder to hip. I have never seen a man do such a thing before. You fell back to the ground after he died, and we got you back to the barracks as fast as we could. You slept for a month, and sprouted the wing in the fourth day. The medics kept urging us to leave you behind, that you were nothing more than a defiled shell of a man, but you were responsive and your vitals seemed normal, if a little fast. You were sleeping. We are back in Rome now, and the priests say it is a good thing we brought you back. You will become a great asset for the Empire." Julius smiled sadly at this last.

"You seem saddened by something. Are you alright?"

"You will be leaving us. You are to enter special training with the temple. We will miss you."

The world moved on, but Corbett did not. He did not appear to age. As long as he was loyal to the government, and did his duties as they were passed to him (usually by a high-ranking friend as he passed back through the Empire on his world-wide meanderings) he was left alone. But then, one day, he was passing along the Sea of Galilee.

He saw the storm and he saw the boat.

He saw the thirteen men, twelve panicking, one sleeping. One of the twelve, a tall, broad-shouldered man went to the sleeping man and woke him. The woken man went to the bow of the boat and raised his hands. Suddenly, the storm abated. The danger was past.

Corbett followed the boat to the dock, interested in this man who commanded nature as easily as some men commanded a blade.

When the men got off, Corbett followed them for a time. He saw them go up a mountain, and the flashes of divine light from above. He saw the man feed a great crowd with the bread and fish of a simple fisherman's son's lunch. He learned the man's name: Jesus Josephson, worshiped as a prophet of the Hebrew people's God, Jahweh. He followed him until he entered Jerusalem on a donkey, heralded with palms and laudation.

And then he lost him.

He didn't know where the man had gone, he didn't know what had happened to him. He went to speak to Pontius Pilate, an old friend who had earned his position from Corbett's recommendation, and there he learned of the man's death. "This Jesus...Last name of Josephson, you say? You did better than the Jewish Temple did. All they could find out was his birthplace, Galilee. Anyway, he was crucified for treason. I didn't understand it. He was a Hebrew, same as the Temple leaders. Why did they feel the need to bribe my boss to get him killed at our hands? We will be reviled throughout history for this act! This man performed great acts of healing!"

"He was more than a simple Hebrew, my friend. On my own reconnaissance, I believe him to have been the offspring of a God. Their God. They may have seen this as a threat to their authority. Your boss may have seen the same. And before you ask, they went over your head because you are next to unbribable and one of the few truly honest men I have ever met. And as you know, my experience counts for a lot."

Pontius laughed wearily. "It's the one virtue to which I will admit. I am painfully honest, to the point of self-deprivation. Actually, it's a good thing you're here, the Emperor wants you to track down and kill this "Barrabos" fellow I released. He's back to causing trouble, and we can't touch him..."

Before Corbett left Jerusalem to find Barrabos, he went to the tomb of this Jesus to pay his respects. On his way there, he passed a woman, one he recognized as one of Jesus' followers, running hell-bent for leather in the opposite direction. As he approached the tomb, he saw the stone they had used to seal the place to the left of the entrance with a bright white figure sitting nonchalantly on top of it. What in Jupiter's name...

The being laughed. "Not Jupiter, my winged friend. Jahweh. I am the messenger of Jahweh, Gabriel. I have come to inform his Son's followers of his release from death. Who are you? I don't believe I have seen you before. Are you Roman? Did you know the Son?"

"By birth, yes. By mentality, no. I am more Grecian in my outlook and very Indian in my philosophy. I was born nearly 300 years ago. I wander this Earth to sniff out evil and snuff it. It was long ago that I decided to follow this path, the first time I died. I saw myself as having two choices: become pure or become sullied. I always considered myself a kind person, and so I protect the innocent with the powers and skills I have acquired since my birth. It was chance that I was by the Sea of Galilee or even in the Empire when this Jesus calmed the waters. I was intrigued, to say the least."

"I see! So you are one of the mortals that mutated on that day...interesting...I see your power is a wing, and a fine one at that. Why is it black? And you know my name, what is yours?"

"I am Corbett. I have gone by no other name since I grew this wing. If I had a surname once, I have forgotten it. The wing is black because, I would assume, whoever gave me it has or had a sick sense of irony. Giving one named after the crow a black wing is fitting, don't you think?"

Gabriel laughed. His laugh was like the tintinnabulation of myriad small bells, and reminded Corbett of every good thing he had ever experienced. "He has always had a sense of humor. For instance, sex! Can you imagine a stranger, more messy way for a being of matter to reproduce? But it works! And makes your kind stronger than any asexual being! That doesn't stop it from being funny to us up there, though. And these "Holy Texts," supposedly written by Him, in any of his forms? HAH! He created the Earth, and the Universe carefully, not in some great swoop! Not than he couldn't have, but we up there feel that slow creation is better for a universe. Fewer problems with physics later. It started with a Bang, and what a Bang, but it developed slowly. He experimented with design on other planets, it always failed. So he just let this planet alone, and by Him, it developed what He had wanted all along: sentience! Self-awareness! Boy was He surprised. Anyway, Jesus' followers are coming, you'd better hide. They're going to be wary of Romans for a while."

"With good reason! I believe I shall be on my way. You've given me quite a bit to think about here. I may need to disappear for a few hundred years. Goodbye, Gabriel, it was nice to meet you."

"Likewise, Corbett! Good luck, and," Gabriel chuckled, "Godspeed!"<spoiler=Necare Aetas>Necare Aetas
Corbett's hands tightened their grip on his scythe. That man...bat...thing...there was not a single glimmer of kindness or mercy in his soul...only blind faith that has been focused into rage at those who do not share his beliefs. Reminds me of the Crusades. And there are so many like him here, to a greater or lesser degree. he thought as he walked through the woods. I wonder who I will be called upon to fight...

Corbett's thoughts were interrupted as a young woman and someone who appeared to be her bodyguard walked past him. The wave of malice that he sensed, not focused on any one person or thing, but rather at everything not under it's complete dominion, set his senses to reeling. He leaned heavily on his scythe for balance. Such...such evil I have not felt since...since Lithuania and the homonculi... He shuddered as the pair moved out of his sphere of sensitivity, mercifully small in this common ground. I hope I am not one of those to face them. That experience is not one I care to repeat.

He sat under a tree near a stream. He reminisced, though perhaps it would be more appropriate to say he remembered as his memories were not exactly pleasant ones.

Russian-occupied Lithuania, 1876
"Fiend! I will not let you leave this place alive!" Corbett yelled over the roar of the rushing river as he faced the one who controlled the homonculi he had been fighting throughout Europe and Western Asia for the last 15 years.

<color=F08080>"Oh won't I? Why do you protect the humans? A misplaced sense of loyalty? Honor?"

"I protect them because they cannot protect themselves from the likes of you!"

<color=F08080>"Faugh! What am I except a better version of them? What are you?"

"I...I don't know...I only know that I am bound by a vow to protect them to the day of my death. And you threaten them by your very existence! I cannot allow you to live!"

<color=F08080>"Idealistic fool! Do you believe they would be pleased to know you fight for them? No! They would shun you as they have shunned me! They made me what I am!"

"...That may be so...but as a "superior being" you should have let it go...as I did..." SCHRACK! Corbett barely dodged the evil one's lightning spell. He threw a fireball back at him...

"Hmmm?" Corbett was drawn out of his reverie by his name being called across the mesa, along with the name "Mort."

"That must be my battle." he muttered to himself as he picked himself and his scythe up and went across the field of Purgatory towards the entrance to their arena.

 

[Spartan Bannana]

Brain in twain...
Awesome.

 

[The Sorrow]

Alright, the winners are Dastardos and Rogueshadows.

Judges: A complaint has reminded me: please take the accuracy of a competitor's representation of their opponent's OC as a factor into your judging.

I'll be busy for a while, but the next two matches will be up this weekend.

 

[Mookie_Magnus]

Damn it..

Oh well, I had fun. I'll keep an eye on this thread, watching until we have a winner.
Congrats Dastardos, you've bested me... This time.

I thought I did a good job... I guess it wasn't good enough

*Goes off to cry*

 

[Flying-Emu]

Damn it..

Oh well, I had fun. I'll keep an eye on this thread, watching until we have a winner.
Congrats Dastardos, you've bested me... This time.

I thought I did a good job... I guess it wasn't good enough

*Goes off to cry*

Don't worry, Mookster. Just be more careful with your opposing character next time. There's always the next RATINGS WAR, after all.

 

[Crowghast]

Well, who's up for grabs next?

 

[SargentToughie]

I really hope it's me, the anticipation is starting to slice me in half.