Either the Knight and Vherran were both part of the Four Horsemen or this is something of your own concoction that I have no chance of guessing. Right?
As far as I can tell, Ultrajoe has set up The Knight as War and Vherran as Famine. I approve of this decision greatly, as it means that we've all been fighting the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse during these RW things.
On that note, Why, oh why Ultrajoe, did Bartleby and Vherran never fight? It would have given me such a perfect excuse to call my chaos demon a Horsemen (I don't know, Change or something. Maybe Growth.) and slip him right into the Horsemen RP. We'd have had such good backstory too.
As is, I'd have to find a way to make Rex a Horsemen (Not me, the character. Big war hammer? White sloth? First RW?) to have anything near the same history. Oh well, it might still be do-able...
Horseman of Justice? ... Anyone? ... No? .... Fine.
This fight was incredably nostalgic for me. It has a style almost identical to the majority of battle posts in the first RW.
You focus almost exclusively on action in this post. You basically just say what happens in the fight. That's passable, as it creates a basic story that's hard to complain about. What I would encourage you to do however is start making use of higher-level writing tricks.
For example, there isn't any noticable theme in this peice. There aren't any symbols and nothing represents anything else so it's hard to picture the fight as anything more significant than your average everyday brawl (admittedly between a zombie priest ninja and a WoW playing knight but...) Themes help the reader associate a deeper meaning to your writing and, by extension, this gives your writing more impact.
If you're unsure about how to establish a theme, just pick something that happens more than once in the story and have your main character note each occurence of it. In this particular piece you could have gotten along quite well with a falling theme (Malcom does it, Micah does it, mountains are constantly coming in and out of the ground, ect), or possibly a theme about heat and cold (because it's changing almost contantly). Once you've picked your theme, have your character associate a feeling with its occurences without explaining why (Malcom feels free when he's falling. Or, Malcom is very welcoming toward the heat and feels alienated in the cold). At the end of the fight you explain why Malcom feel the way he does (He hasn't got anything left to live for but he can't die so when he's falling he can imagine that his troubles are almost over and he can let go. Or, hot is a more violent and determined temperature than cold. Hot is more like a weapon and since Malcom's life has basically been diminished into becoming a weapon, he feels a sense of kinship with heat.)
The explinations don't have to make perfect sense, as long as there's a tenuous link people will think you've written something very meaningful and they'll enjoy the story more. It helps them get into the mind of your character a little more.
Speaking of, apart from at the begining and end when Malcom is talking, we don't really get much from Malcom's perspective. Even when your using the third person omnitient narrator it's vital to let the reader know how your character feels. Otherwise we have trouble establishing bonds with either character and when one triumphs it lacks any real kick.
In the future, make sure you take a quick pause from the fight every now and then to get into the mind of your character. Tell us if his legs hurt, if he's hungry, if he can feel the bullet lodged in his gut, if he's devoted to the fight or secretly distracted by the thought of getting his family back. Does he think he can win this? What does he think of his opponent? What does he see? What does he smell? What does he taste? What does he hear? What does he feel?
Answering little questions like that turns the fight from a battle between mannequins to a fight between deep, three-dimensional characters.
Remember to make use of all the senses whenever you get the chance. It makes the writing that much deeper and, while it really doesn't make sense that the reader would care if Malcom has a funny taste in his mouth that doesn't affect the plot in any way, we do care and telling us if he does will make us very happy.
That's my advice for the future. As I said, your story is fairly cut and dry and therefore hard to complain about. It seems like my biggest gripe so far is that you didn't make use of all your potential. The story you submitted is passable, but with a little finesse it might have been exquisite. I would just say to definitely try and put a theme into the next one and be sure to tell us what Malcom is thinking from one moment to the next. Sensory perception is always good.
The lack of those things didn't detract from the story, but their addition would be an enormous boon.
Ivan stood waiting in the lobby, not conversing with any of the other people that shared it with him. He looked in between them, and only became more certain that putting any of them in the position of 'god' would lead to disaster. Even if it were to cost him his life, he would prevent this group of people from ascending to such an important and powerful throne.
To help pass the time, Ivan drew his blade and started channeling light amounts of his power through it, giving the blade an azure aura. This exercise helped to focus his mind away from how slowly the time around him was creeping by, and it also allowed him to practice several new sword arts that he was working on. He shut his eyes as the sword rose in the air, pointing out and away, it took all of Ivan's concentration and inner focus to prevent the slowly accumulating store of energy in his blade from rushing out all over the place. After several seconds, he began to slowly let out the energy, allowing it to dissipate into the air, which required even more focus on Ivan's part, as he had to concentrate heavily on only letting out a small trickle when there was an ocean ready to burst out.
After the course of five minutes, the exercise was over, and Ivan was mentally drained. He had to sheath his sword and sit down. Only one thought going through his mind.
The hand on his back healed him, just like before. Devon woke up, jerking into a sitting position as he did. "What the hell happened? Where am I?"
"You are safe, child." The angel said. "You succeded. You are to move on to the next round."
"The next round of what?"
"The tournament."
"Bullshit." Devon said. "BULLSHIT! YOU TOLD ME I WAS A REPRESENTITIVE, A DIPLOMAT, THAT I WAS GOING TO TALK TO PEOPLE!"
"I said no such thing, child."
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT I JUST DID? I KILLED A MAN, FOR FUCKS SAKE!"
"You did not kill him, he chose-
"Yeah, well it's the same goddamn thing!" Devon growled, then turned away.
"I did not lie to you." The angel said softly. "You are representing us, but in a combative tournament."
"Then what the fuck were you thinking! I don't know the first thing about fighting!"
"You won this time."
"Because the guy wouldn't shoot me! I doubt I'll be that lucky again."
"You might not need to be. Your last opponent left you a gift, it seems."
Devon looked down. A massive gun, along with an even more massive bandolier, had fallen off of his lap when he stood. Devon shook his head. "That's not the fucking point! I didn't agree to fight, I agreed to play peacekeeper, talk things out, maybe help you make things right."
"You defeated The Conduit with words alone." The angel said.
"He couldn't kill me."
"It doesn't matter. You defeated a being whos entire purpose was to keep the wrong being from taking The Seat."
"You don't get it." Devon said. "You don't fucking get it."
"I do. More than you know." The angel waved his hand. "There is food in the refrigorator, and you can sleep on the sofa. My apologies for the perhaps less-than acceptable preperations."
"Go fuck yourself." Devon said, holstering the gun.
"I will see you later." the angel replied, and disapeared.
I don't know if anyone noticed that I wrote something almost criminally mysterious last time I was here, but I did, and it's just the first part of a series of stories. The way I see it, earth must be in dissaray, and someone's gotta do something about it.
I've decided to keep the side story with The Axi in the same place; link is here [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/forums/read/362.107952?page=10#2119909]. Thought it might be more organized than going through twenty pages of material just to find half a dozen stories.
-For every rise must come a fall. For every death there must be life. This is the balance-
------
War. War is the chimera, the hydra, the beast and the monster. It is the angel, the saviour, the father and the guardian.
The black terror that thunders across the plains of purgatory towards the contestants is not War. War has purpose and cause, it is a witless tool of man and can be made to do anything. This is not war, this is not a tool. This is a weapon. The massive red horns that surround its dark head are the color of blood and slow death, the spikes that frame its massive shoulders are the intent to maim. The Song in its head
is not a tune of victory, or a warcry, it is a cold and sterile proclamation of death.
War is not natural. War is not just. War is a human creation, war is competition and evolution taken to proportions never seen on the planet. The best man is not the fittest, the best man is the last man standing. Survival of the fittest has become survival. War is Vengeance.
War is natural. War is just. War is a human reaction, war is the will to live and evolution taken to dazzling heights never dreamed of by any living thing on the planet. The best is the fittest, the most cunning. The best man will be the last man standing. Survival has become a test. War is Justice.
Vengeance swings its mighty blade, Rhapsody, and knows nothing of loss and pain, what it would inflict this night.
This is not War.
------
What did you say?
...
I Want Justice
------
Alpha punched a tree, making pathetic whimpering noises as his plan unravelled around him. War, the second, was about to risk the end of the world for nothing more than the need to be himself. Poetic, really, war ending itself, but not good when so much time had been spent to bring him back to the mortal realm. He... he had to stop him somehow, perhaps place a portal in his path, lure him through to where he was truly indestructible. If not... if not then he would need to find the fourth and hope he could be made to spare him.
But, he thought, how to catch up to the sec-
Alpha had only a second to cover his face, a second to throw himself to the ground, as the furious soul finished it's long descent from above, and with a roar that almost fooled him into thinking Armageddon had come unbidden, smashed into the red waters in front of him.
His eyes swum, unable to focus on anything in the glow that had stained his retinas. He fumbled towards his sunglasses, slipping them over his face and getting unsteadily to his feet. In front of him the white turned to red, and he began to see the outlines of faint shapes. The red turned to brown, and he could make out the surface of the pool... why was it not destroyed? The place seemed untouched...
The world returned to normal.
And then, for an instant, the world was the color of the purest sky. And after that blue, the world was pain.
Alpha couldn't move, his back was broken and both his legs were bent at odd angles from where agony incarnate had gripped him by the ankles and broken him against the tree. His next was twisted, and he could not look away from where his eyes were pointed, not that he would. The cause of his suffering stood before him, the golden edges of his armor glittering in the starlight. With a sound like mournful thunder, twin novas of blue exploded into being in the blackness of his helmet. Alpha twitched, trying to crawl away despite his unmoving body, as the lithe knight walked towards him. "J-jonathan" he coughed, pleading, as the cobalt gauntlets hoisted him into the air.
He stared into the icy, glowing pupils, and there was no mercy.
"Alpha" Said Jonathan, reaching up to grip the whimpering jaw of the deceiver "There are so many people I could say this was for. But I think i'll enjoy this just for myself"
Alpha screamed as he was dropped, falling onto his knees. He screamed as the knight tensed and swiveled, spinning as his leg rose slowly into the air. He screamed so that hades could hear him, right up until a heel the color of the shallow sea crashed into the top of his head, driving his living brain down into his pelvis.
-----
War needs to know loss. War needs to know pain. War needs to be human, until the end, or it ceases to be a tool or weapon. But it must also know abandon. Jonathan Knight is not War.
War needs to know joy. War needs to love pain. War needs to be inhuman, until the end, or it ceases to be a monster or abhorrence. But it must also know restraint. The Knight is not War.
-----
The Knight stood away from the camp, eyes locked on the buildings and facilities of the tournament. He hefted his blade, the shining metal swinging through the air brightly despite the lack of sun. Vengeance, and joy, that was the Song. The Song was battle, and he felt it wind around his body and make the grass tremble at the sonic disturbance. Soon it would sing, in percussion and the breaking of tendons, in the crack of bone and the screams of the dying.
Knight ran, fast enough to make the grass ripple in his wake. His eyes fixed in fury on the distant, massive figure on the hill before him. He held out his hand as he ran, feeling the longing for a weapon, feeling the approach of the blade. In his mind he cursed and seethed at the creature in front of him, mind rolling over the pain and rage it had caused, he swore and vowed death and pain. He played back the sounds of his fists on her face, of the gun in his hands and the screams of so many victims, played back the laughter, the sounds of joy that weren't his.
The Knight turned as he approached, to see a streak of blue leap into the air, arms pulled back over it's head to strike with a weapon that wasn't there. It turned, roaring in recognition of the parasite it had clung to in the anticipation of its vengeance.
It pulled back Rhapsody in readiness, snarling victory at the smaller warrior.
Slowly, time made glacial by the adrenaline and the cold hatred, the empty hands gripped at nothing and swung downwards. The Black enemy drew back the very real blade, readying a cleaving strike, and the eyes of red flame locked on the icy gaze as they drew closer.
And then the world was made light again, as blue hands caught the falling star.
Silence met Rhapsody, and Vengeance met Justice.
-----
The most important thing about War is the one that we most often forget: You need an enemy.
In purgatory, suspended between the damned and the blessed, the two sides of the struggle met in a blast of heat and noise. The side that knew loss and death, and the side that knows ambition and glory. Honor and memory met awe and dreams, and they made War.
The other contestants woke up at the sound, the noise rattling windows and the heat setting the ground around the collision on fire.
Some of them ventured up onto the hill, but there was only scorched earth, and the curling wisps of smoke.
Come
And
See
The
Vengeance -end- Come
And
See
The
Justice
Bet you I win, haha
You're on
Khedive Rex said:
Revenent said:
Either the Knight and Vherran were both part of the Four Horsemen or this is something of your own concoction that I have no chance of guessing. Right?
As far as I can tell, Ultrajoe has set up The Knight as War and Vherran as Famine. I approve of this decision greatly, as it means that we've all been fighting the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse during these RW things.
If I had gone ahead with Eviljoe, I would have tied Alpha in with the shadowy people at Vherran's demise in RW2. I put way, way too much thought into these things (Which explains, but doesn't excuse, my fanatic desire to make RW work well). I'm tossing up whether to use Vherran and The Knight in my 'Four Horsemen' RP as their component parts, but as that game will be seeing the first long before the second or third, there's lots of time to think. That story (not game) will be starting later this week, tonight even, so interested players should keep their eyes peeled.
Horseman of Justice? ... Anyone? ... No? .... Fine.
Well, here it is, with permission from UJ to use his boy. E-cookie to whoever knows the source of the last line
INTERMISSION I: A HELL OF A TIME
Alpha, in a most unexpected turn of events, woke up.
He shot up, wiping sand and grit from his eyes and mouth (and not the expected divine dirt and grass).
?Revelation 21:6, right??
He spun. There was a man, clad in a red uniform, sitting atop one of myriad dunes in the seemingly-endless desert the two were apparently confined within. A flintlock pistol sat on his hip, while the barrel of a musket peeked over his shoulder. Alpha didn?t respond.
?Where you got your name, right? ?Beginning and the End? crap, I figured a guy who?s done shit like you?ve done would love it.?
Alpha gritted his teeth, but did not respond to the big Brit (judging by his accent).
?Or maybe you?re just an arsehole, wanted a fancy secret-agent name to make your dick feel big.?
Despite an overwhelming urge to perform a scientific analysis on the effects of inverting a human?s digestive system, Alpha merely asked a simple question.
?Where are we??
?Oh!? exclaimed the gent, rising. ?Pardon my manners. My name is Richard Montalban, and I?ll be presiding over your eternal suffering! Any attempts to call me ?Dick? or ?Monty? will result in incrementally more suffer-y suffering. As for where we are??
He grinned.
?Let?s just say it?s my place.?
?Is this Hell?? asked Alpha.
?Oh, no. You think far too much of yourself. This is where the boys who really don?t play nice end up. I preside over the death row of the worst prison in existence, you could say.?
He suddenly put on an air of contemplation, as though pondering something.
?I?ve got half a mind to go up and kill those Knight bastards of yours. One thing I hate more than pricks is pricks who don?t have the common decency to stay dead.?
At this, Alpha stifled a snort.
?You think you could??
Montalban frowned and descended from his powdery perch. He stopped, face-to-face with his victim.
?Tell you what, chum. You beat me in a fight, I let you go. Fair enough??
?How do I know you?ll let me go??
?You?re proper fucked even if you don?t fight me.?
Alpha grinned and reared back, invulnerable body channeling insane quantities of potential energy into his fist.
The punch hit with the force of a tractor-trailer at MACH 3. His clenched hand collided with Montalban?s face, stopping as it did so. The arm behind it didn?t.
Montalban?s former seat was blown away. A shallow valley was formed as the shockwave from the blow carved the desert.
The jailer didn?t even budge.
Alpha stared at his hand in shock; it had wrapped itself around his foe?s cheekbone like a car hitting a lightpole, effectively imploding in the process. His former fist was a concave mess, the bones shattered and driven into the muscles of his forearm.
?Right, my turn,? said the unflappable Englishman. He brought his own fist up, Alpha?s still sitting, ruined, on his cheekbone.
Alpha?s entire face caved in around the punch. His nose was brought back into his skull as eyeballs burst and teeth flew into his brain. Chunks of sunglasses briefly hovered in the air as their owner flew.
The crushed conspirator woke some distance from his original location, screaming with a mouth that was in half a dozen places as sand filled his bony crater of a face.
?Shut what?s left of your gob and listen, arsewipe. I?ve been thinking; what I?m going to have you do is count sand. That simple enough??
The big Englishman stared intently at the felled felon, causing his face to fix itself in the most horrendously painful manner possible.
?All you need to do is count every grain of sand in this desert, understand??
?And?and when I do?? wheezed Alpha. ?You?ll let me go??
?In a sense.? Montalban pulled his pistol from his side. ?What I?ll do is end your existence for good.?
?And if I?don?t count?? muttered the damned.
?Try it.?
Alpha sat still for a moment, then fell down, screaming so loudly that bloody scraps of his throat flew from his mouth. Armored fists were caving in his skull, a chainsaw was hacking his brain in two?
?Like it? See, fuckers like you never seem to realize what it?s like to be fucked. So, there you go. You get to feel it, whether or not it was your dick that did the deed.?
Still raising unholy Cain with his screams, Alpha blindly grabbed a handful of sand and began letting it slowly drip, one grain at a time, from his hand. The pain subsided in a heartbeat.
?Just keep on going, and you won?t feel it again. Good-bye, arsewipe.?
With that, the gaoler strode away, leaving the condemned to his task. He grinned; he would add a few grains to the place every once in a while, maybe take some away to make the idiot think he was getting close. To teach misery is a delicate art.
I tried to prompt some inter-match story by waking everybody up with a large explosion of Unstoppable, Immovable objects meeting, but it seems they sleep deeply. I like the intermission thing, a nice fate for a nasty ass, it's a shame he ended up doing his job and let slip the dogs of war.
Anyway, i'm reading with eager eyes, bring on the stories.
Higurashi" post="362.107952.2255682 said:
Allfather D'Aronique, Preacher.
Is that the one where the angel of death makes a cowboy the grim reaper? And he kills the devil for shits and giggles?
It had been days since Janet had found herself yanked from reality. Days spent mourning and angry, for the most part, though some of them was taken up with roaming around and finding suitable weapons to fight in this tournament. Janet was determined that nothing would keep her longer than it would take for her to stab it to death. Even then, it might not. Once her old knife had been recovered she?d extended her collection with a number of throwing knives and a short sword.
Janet felt her body slow and jolt a little. A presence filled her from the toes up like solid iron shoved painlessly into veins, joints and nerves. All at once.
"Your first challenge has been announced," whispered white-hot into her ear. The solidity of her body disappeared as soon as it had arrived, leaving Janet sprawled upon a suddenly rocky floor. Debris surrounded her in the gloom, the only light filtering through a hole in the wall. It was freezing. The thin clothes had no impact upon this biting chill when it seeped into her bones, making the hairs on the back of Janet's head stand on end. Or was that something else, some other, sinister presence in the area over which she had no control. She did not know.
Janet stumbled through freezing corridors without feeling the ache in her toes for want of shoes. This building couldn't be a part of the divine world, it was too Dystopic, the air too acidic upon Janet's tongue to even come close to the sweetness she'd only noticed once done crying herself sick. Realisations come thick and fast the more time she spent there, including the fact that her near-silent movements were being drowned out by the heavier footsteps of another.
A pity that Stan didn't pay as much attention. He rounded a corner to meet a knife to the face which sliced open his jaw before instinct pulled him back. Fingers snapped. Janet found herself suddenly restrained without ropes.
"Oh, wow. What'd'ya do that for? It really hurt."
Awareness dawned on him an instant after the blood amassed enough to drip on the floor.
"You're.. my opponent? Ah. Uh, maybe it's time for me to introduce myself. I'm Stan. A wizard."
Janet couldn't shake the feeling that there was something dreadfully wrong with their situation. She twisted in her position, ignoring Stan in favour of possible escape. The Wizard seemed so surprised by the way muscles bunched and pushed Janet to her feet. Blood gleamed on the tip of the back-curved knife. It was a nasty looking thing to inspire trepidation on Stan's behalf. He didn't want that wicked hook anywhere near him.
Her eyes lifted from the ground as she tensed and shrugged off the spell that he?d restrained her with. Janet had a feel for it now. One hand steadied her against the wall as the other flicked blood off the knife.
"Janet Pike. I don't know what I'm meant to be."
"Right. Right. Janet. Is there any chance we could sort this out amicably? I don't really want to fi-.." He found himself cut off when a throwing knife skimmed past his shoulder. She was playing for keeps, he could see that. Although her motives were entirely hidden from him Stan could see the rage. The hatred. The expression on her face which screamed "you're between me and mine" which made his position a little uncomfortable. He threw up protection barriers so that the second knife to scythe its way through the air stopped half way and fell to the ground. Janet's eyes narrowed.
"Look lady, I don't want to be here as it is. Nor do I want to kill you, or anyone, or to be killed. I'd rather we find another way to do this. I realise it might not suit you but please, you need blood on your hands as little as I do," he tried again. Something was dreadfully wrong with this place. It played havoc with his senses. Something in the walls. Stan spun, pointing a finger at the closest one as he uttered a Command Word. It crumbled and disappeared around a hole in the centre, just as the on beyond that did. Not taking his eyes from the woman before him Stan climbed through into a far bigger chamber.
The floor dropped down in the middle to meet a twisted wreckage. Everywhere scorch-marks and rubble blocked any kind of path. He heard Janet's sharp inhalation and backed away, cursing the luck that this place was even worse than the corridor.
Janet couldn't stop herself from leaning over the remnant of a barrier to stare at the massive hole. It reminded her of the many post-apocalyptic illustrations that Tash had so loved. Tears pricked her eyes as nostalgia dropped over them followed swiftly by rage at the walls constraining her. Spinning, Janet pointed a finger.
"We fight."
A nod was the only response he gave, though Stan looked around for some means to get outside. He could feel the toxic situation attacking the cells of his body even though she couldn't. The realisation that they?d be fighting there, on the edge of a radioactive sink made him shudder. He'd have one chance to take her out. Stan enquired a little into her background, asking after Tash, after her friends, after anyone so he could buy some extra time to work out what she?d do.
Unfortunately for him Janet had other plans than to answer more than the few questions she thought would make him lose heart. She could tell that it bothered him to kill her. Good. He'd hesitate. The first would-be knife strike earned her a scorched arm from where Stan had shot a burst of flame in her direction. Not as hesitant as she'd hoped. Muscles coiled in her legs and belly as she crouched back to a sprinter?s start. All the energy she'd pent up over her life was going into this. He was a first victim, but he'd fall all the same.
Everything seemed to slow for Stan as the woman came to her feet and sprung at him. The barriers he'd thrown up did very little to stop her once she'd got past the first so he lifted a hand to snap his fingers. The bones in her left arm fractured and there was a sickening crack from the right. Janet didn't even register the pain, it was all for Tash. Every last spray of blood she extracted as the curved blade played noughts-and-crosses across Stan's chest long after he'd lost enough blood to die. They'd all fall to it, and then she would rise and return to that which was most precious.
A guttural howl tore from Janet's throat when she was stained to the forearms with ichor, the bloody knife still clutched in her hand. Shattered bones put a sharp pain through her left arm to make the woman gasp and bow forward once more. Her eyes caught Stan's and she blinked at the expression. He looked so very human lying there, dying. All the mental preparation in the world didn't prepare her for the sensation of sudden guilt which crippled Janet more than the injuries.
On that note, Why, oh why Ultrajoe, did Bartleby and Vherran never fight? It would have given me such a perfect excuse to call my chaos demon a Horsemen (I don't know, Change or something. Maybe Growth.) and slip him right into the Horsemen RP. We'd have had such good backstory too.
As is, I'd have to find a way to make Rex a Horsemen (Not me, the character. Big war hammer? White sloth? First RW?) to have anything near the same history. Oh well, it might still be do-able...
Horseman of Justice? ... Anyone? ... No? .... Fine.
There's something entirely wrong with a world where you can be slurping ICEEs with Buddy Christ and then find yourself standing on ground that oozes with 'ick' at every instance of movement. Stan looked around, and found his locale to be anything but enjoyable. Something about the air felt disgusting, and he couldn't pin his perception on it.
The sky seemed a permanent dull grey, perhaps with the coming of clouds or the onset of rain, but it didn't really feel like either. The world has a feeling of its own, rising with the tides and falling just as swiftly. Thank God (who cursed him with such a disappropriate destiny) he had a robe on. The wind whistled through distant trees, and Stan felt it appropriate to scratch his chin pensively. Pink.
He began walking. Death-colored rust covered every surface with the poor fortune to be metal, and every manner of building was left unattended and appeared to be unoccupied. The hairs on his neck never really let up on the unspoken fear that something was amiss in this place. Even those on his wrist warned him of a death he could not hear, see, smell, or taste.
"The thing about wizards," his teacher had once said, "is that they are no more than bodies, bones, and bags. Behind the flesh, though, is a root of the name. Wise. Wizards have power through knowledge, and that is their advantage over the world around them. The unspeakable evils in the world are not so frail as the human body, though their security in their own power is the only advantage they'll ever give you." Stan felt along, confused, and worst of all... Stupid. Where he was, what he was doing, he'd never know. The smell his this damn place was awful, though.
Around him, behind him, beside him, crept a foe. The creak of a swingset chain, or perhaps just a snap of a brush caused Stan to jolt around, his pink ponytail slapping him in the face as his did so. When the hair fell from his eyes, the playground behind him was empty. A flake of paint fell from an iron bar.
Another step, to his right. He jerked his head, hair slapped him in the nose. "God damned hair!" The hair fell, the silence interrupted, but his field of vision empty. Stan was more than a little irritated, but he kept it to himself. Some freakin' destiny, he thought sourly, to be slapped repeatedly in the face by your own hair.
Behind him, a sharp whistle. He turned to see a knife whiz by his perception. A second joined the first, and nicked him in the ear. The next two were aimed for his eye and nose, but he jerked his head back at the last second. Good luck was his tool, and he only managed to take a knife right in the temple. Not a lodge, like in Hollywood, but still a gash good enough to make his fucking pink hair get all bloody and stuck in his eye. Which would, probably, get blood in it too. Damn.
Whatever was lobbing sharp pointies at him, though, he didn't like. Newton's law states that every action has it's opposite. Every knife had to displace air, the impact on his skull had to rebound energy. These are the forces that make up magic, and these are the forces Stan had to command. A little kinetic burst here, and dash of air displacement there, and Stan have gathered enough energy to shoot a kinetic bullet in the direction of the unknown knives.
However, magic has to central point. It needs a Will to control it, and energy needs to come from the vicinity (unlike the Spirit Bomb in DBZ, those hacks). So, instead of shooting an air-warping ball of doom from the center of the clearing, he'd shoot an air-warping ball of doom from behind the attacker in the trees. How for in the trees, though, he didn't know, or how big, he couldn't say. So, he made the ball about five meters tall and wide, and lanced it toward himself from about forty meters into the trees. After hearing nature creak and groan, completely erupting trees (and wasting all of that kinetic energy), a short gasp burst from the treeline and a girl came spiraling out of the trees. She landed at about the same time his burst got back to him. She landed in a sprawl of limbs, and his magic did little more than ruffle his robes with the air resistance having slowed it so shockingly.
He mused as he looked at the girl. She seemed human, in every sense of the word. Nothing particularly special, or even bizarre. Stan continued to stare at her face. "Serene" isn't the word he was looking for, but distant. Unfocused but clear, like someone looking at a Chess board and thinking of the next fifteen moves. Her eyes, themselves, spoke volumes.
His feet, on the other hand, were punctured. He yelped, and saw her sinking a knife into his toes. "Whoa," he sputtered, trying to jolt his foot back. "Calm the hell down." Newton, downforce, opposite upforce. Her arm shot up in the same strength as it was brought down, and Stan was left with a massive puncture in his... Damn it, those were his favorite shoes! Blood spurted a little, and Stan's face twisted with pain. One step at a time, he told himself. He winced at the word "step", and thought his subconscious should shut the hell up.
The girl got up, glaring at Stan for all the hatred of the world. Stan mused that though she was way more pretty than her last girlfriend, she looked just as angry. It was probably the pink hair. Gods, how he hated the pink hair.
"Just die," she said slowly, thinking about some ghostly image in the distance. In her eyes was a look of a hurdle. A simple wooden construction set up to make her climb a little to reach her goal. Stan's life meant less to her than a... thing to surmount.
Heh heh, mount. Damn it, Stan. Stay focused!
Her eyes revealed more to Stan than he'd ever thought. Maybe with was that God damned destiny everyone always blathered on about, or maybe it was the fact that he hadn't shaved in a while. The robes felt like lead on his skin. (Which, in retrospect, would've been better for his skin given his exotic locale at the time.)
She lunged while he waxed poetic about the look in her eyes. Had he not noticed them get bigger as she advanced, he'd probably be dead. To lunge, one must place the opposite impact on the floor. Said impact, Stan mused, hurt like hell when you didn't have several million tons of Earth to stabilize it. Janet rushed, but the resulting impact tore her shoulder out of socket and sent her into a piteous spiral that ended all too gracelessly in the mud.
Stan hated this. Stan didn't hate the women, Stan didn't want to kill anymore, and he sure as hell didn't want to die. "What kind of Heaven," Stan began, watching the sky, "would make people do this to one another." The sky rumbled in response, and Stan decided that the next time the Fates should get together and have tea, they should pick some other asshole to shaft with "a great Destiny."
And may that prick have pink hair too.
Stan didn't so much feel the knife tear into his guts as he felt his entire lower half explode into an inferno of raging nerves. He looked down to find his stomach cut just shy of spilling his insides. Damn, he mused at the human girl who proceeded to slam his shin with the butt of a knife, I hate you, God.
With all the force of every blow, tear, and cut she introduced, he beaded it all up. His shins were sliced, diced, and chopped up. That, too, joined the bead. Energy conversion went over in his head, math and numbers fell into place like clockwork. Knowledge, his teacher had said, is power. Stan knew what this bead would do, Stan knew what the consequences would be. The knife bit into his knee once last, and he brought the bead down.
The sky in front of him erupted with an explosion of sparks. It looked like the muzzle flash of a gun scaled 3x. The resulting kinetic bead lanced through the woman's head. Death was instant, and the damn knife that turned him into sushi fell into the mud.
Despite the pain leaving, Stan felt no respite. Some God in Heaven just made him murder another human being. For fuckin' what!? he demanded as he looked to the sky. Some damned fools' errand. Some fucking afternoon sitcom. Damn it!
Stan burst into tears, his bleeding body falling onto hers. Some fuckin' world, some fuckin' God. The hell is wrong with this place? His eyes watered over, and he felt nothing. The world continued to spin without him, and he only had emptiness left. God forbid he have injuries for no damned reason, but he just killed someone.
Okay, Nuke? You're technically a day late, and neither of the other two fighters have submitted.
I'm going to let yours count, but the other two only get until midnight EST before
I declare a double forfeit.
Rahk-Tahl clasped his hands beneath his chin and tapped his index finger against his cracked lips. The portal swirled white beneath him, images of mountains and marble buildings flashing to its surface. The images rolled across his eyes unnoticed. Within, he fought.
There was little to say. He had observed his competitors, deciphered their techniques, observed their personalities, and witnessed their power. He was an insect in comparison. Wit
could not overpower raw strength. Not here.
Oliver stepped beside him, staring down into the portal. Glancing at Rahk, he nodded and stepped over the lip of the precipice. Oliver fell quickly, enveloped by the shifting waves of the portal.
Rahk grimaced. Forced to fight a boy hardly out of his parents home; did those in charge of the tournament mark him so low? To place him against a boy that had likely never felt a woman?s touch? That a child would be a true challenge for him?
They would learn. He would teach them. He would bring the boy to his knees and, as the boy groveled, destroy him.
He fell.
A sea of images swam through his mind. Great battles and colossal men streamed together with dying women and screaming children until Rahk was certain he had been lost.
White marble loomed before his eyes only moments before he collided with it. Heaps of dust flew from the crater, covering Rahk in a cloak of white. He laid still a moment, wincing against what he strongly suggested was a shattered rib. Slowly, laboriously, he pulled himself to his feet and gasped at his surroundings.
Massive constructions crowded the peak. Some stretched more than thirty times Rahk?s height. He stared in awe at the majesty before him, his jaw open. The entire visible area stood silent, devoid of life. ?Surely?? he thought, wincing as he moved his chest just a bit too far. ?Mount Olympus, home of the Gods, should have more? life to it.? Wind echoed eerily through the columns, giving an impression of solemnity to the massive marble buildings.
A hint of brown caught his eye. Set against the polished stone stood a decrepit wooden sign. Even from a distance, Rahk could tell that there was some sort of engraving upon the wood. He scrambled carefully down, creating an avalanche of small pebbles as he went.
Rahk settled in front of the sign. The letters lay foreign to his eyes yet he felt it was of some importance. He ran his fingers over the carving, racking his brain for any sort of hint to its meaning. ?I don?t even know what language this is.? He muttered, his fingers falling away from the wood.
?English.?
Rahk whipped his head around, wincing as he pulled once more at the broken rib. The speaker was a dark-haired youth with thick bags under his eyes. He held no weapons but held himself with the air of one who did. ?And who? are you?? Rahk said, slowly turning himself to face the newcomer.
The boy said blankly. ?Oliver.? He began drawing in the air with his index finger. Soot cascaded from the trail he made through the air. ?And you are Rahk-Tahl.? His voice lacked emotion, which only increased the chill that ran down Rahk?s spine.
?Yes. Yes I am.? Rahk replied, allowing a slight smile to tug at his lips. The boy?s eyebrows lifted minutely. ?Excellent.?? Rahk thought. ?The boy does have some measure of emotion.? Rahk opened his palms as the boy continued his work. ?And what are you doing there??
?Summoning.?
?Summoning? Summoning what??
?Some help.?
Oliver?s movements increased in ferocity. He slashed violently through the air leaving soot to swirl in the chill mountain breeze. Rahk felt a shiver run down his spine as darkness surrounded the boy. ?Help? for what??
?To kill you, of course.?
Rahk?s stomach twisted. His rib bit painfully into his body. ?Forced into combat and already wounded. Perfect.? Rahk closed his eyes, allowing his internal force to spread to his fists. He felt his knuckles, his palms, his hands harden. A coat of protection that happened to sting quite a bit when used otherwise.
Oliver?s cool voice broke Rahk from his trance. ?We don?t have to do this.? At Rahk?s puzzled glance, Oliver continued. ?Surrender, and I won?t kill you. Please. You don?t stand a chance.?
Stretching up to his full height Rahk looked down on the boy. ?Surrender, boy? I?ve destroyed a god, and you ask me to surrender to you?? The boy nodded, his gray eyes watching Rahk closely. Dispassionately. Oh, how those eyes frightened him.
Rahk scratched his chin and let his body relax. ?I?m afraid to say that surrender is out of the question, young one.? He interjected as the soot began to swirl about Oliver once more. ?However, I believe? compromise? is possible.?
The soot fell once more to the ground. ?? Compromise?? Oliver asked slowly, the word sliding oddly from his tongue. ?What sort of compromise??
?Certainly you?ve seen the pairs of fighters that roam that blasted ?rest? area. Jack and Jyll, for example. If they are paired, then why not us??
?The Judge would not allow-? Oliver began, a hint of annoyance filtering through his calm voice.
?We do not know that.? Rahk interrupted, taking a small step closer to the boy.
?There is no rule that allows it.? Oliver said simply. He began drawing the soot around him once more.
?There is no rule against it!? The boy froze. Rahk had his attention. ?Look at the positives, boy.? Rahk continued carefully, tensing the muscles in his legs. ?If you and I were to work together, we would be an unstoppable force!?
?No force is unstoppable.? Oliver said, raising an eyebrow at Rahk.
He realized he had blundered. ?Regardless,? Rahk waved away the rebuttal. ?Think of the benefits! Not only would we be able to match the numbers of the pairs, we would have an advantage over the single combatants!?
Oliver paused. His hand trembled a bit. ?I? don?t like being around other people.?
Rahk perceived an advantage. ?We needn?t be around each other except during battle. I?ll leave you be in Purgatory, you do the same for me.?
Oliver?s lip twisted downwards slightly. ?You?re trying to trick me. I can see it in your eyes. You want the title of God of Earth all to yourself.? The boy?s eyebrow shot upwards once again as Rahk-Tahl burst into raucous laughter. ?What seems to be so amusing??
Rahk wiped a tear from his eye, fighting the urge to double over with laughter. ?God of Earth? I don?t care about the title!? He laughed again. Oliver?s face was a portrait of confusion. Perfect.
?Then?? Oliver began slowly. ?What are you here for??
?A test!?
?What??
The Aztec stemmed his laughter at last. ?A test, I tell you. This is a game to me! To prove my strength. I don?t care for the responsibilities of being a God.?
Oliver looked doubtfully at Rahk. ?So, what? You?d bestow the entire title on me if we won??
The boy was considering it. Oh, sweet perfection. Now for the final nail in the boy?s coffin.
Rahk waved the boy over. As Oliver cautiously approached, Rahk stepped briskly along the path. He made a beeline for the nearest cliff.
Standing at the precipice of the cliff and gripping the lip with his toes, Rahk said softly. ?Do you see all this land that lies before you, Oliver?? The boy stepped beside Rahk, nodding and looking out over the vast expanse of rivers and fields that Mount Olympus overlooked. ?I swear on the honor of my people to grant the seat of God of Earth upon you should the two of us win this competition.? Oliver seemed to overlook the slight emphasis on the ?two?.
Oliver mused, muttering under his breath, the words inaudible despite Rahk?s strain. ?I need time to think this over.? He said finally.
?There is no time. The judges need a victor before the sun falls.? Rahk shook his head. ?You have to choose now, Oliver. Will you really give up an advantage over your foes??
Oliver shuddered. Turning to Rahk, he stared directly into the Aztec?s eyes. ?You swear to pass on the title of God??
?I swear.?
Oliver took a deep breath and extended his hand to Rahk. ?Then I believe you.?
Rahk laughed, taking Oliver?s hand in his own. He clapped his hand onto Oliver?s shoulder. A toothy grin bared across his face as he said ?And that was your last mistake!?
Confusion crossed Oliver?s face once again. His expression quickly turned to rage as he felt pressure against his shoulder sending him closer to the cliff and the abyss that lay below it. ?You bastard.? He said coolly. He gripped Rahk?s hand with adrenaline-fueled strength and fell, pulling Rahk with him.
?Well now, that wasn?t part of the plan?? Rahk?s thoughts were quickly chased away by a burst of flame that narrowly scorched his chest. He fell, grappling with Oliver with one arm and striking with the other.
Jets of flame and bolts of thunder rocketed narrowly by him as Oliver snarled broken phrases. ?Bit smoking alligator Antartica!? he cackled madly, driving a flame-coated fist into Rahk?s stomach.
?Okay. So close-combat wasn?t the best idea.? Rahk thought as flames scorched the surface of his stomach.
Oliver gripped Rahk?s neck with his free hand and pulled him close, shouting over the whistling wind that whipped his hair above him. ?See that ground down there?!? Oliver laughed hoarsely, driving his knee into Rahk?s crotch. The earth hurtled towards them as Rahk clutched fearfully onto Oliver?s wrist. ?That?s gonna kill us both! Happy now?!? Oliver laughed wildly, bashing his head into Rahk?s.
Broken, bleeding, and burnt, Rahk exploded in anger. He felt energy well from the pit of his stomach to his lips. He screamed in rage and sent the energy forth. Striking Oliver full in the face, the boy?s eyes slid shut and blood began dripping from his nose. His grip loosened on Rahk?s wrist, and Rahk let him fall free.
Spreading his arms wide, Rahk directed his fall towards the mountainside. With a cry, he drove his palm into the stone and grabbed. He felt ligaments tear and bone snap, but his arm held.
Rahk glanced down and saw a faint shadow strike the rocky ground silently. His heartbeat began to slow, his breathing returned to normal, and he heaved a great sigh. It was promptly cut short by a rumbling overhead. Above him, a sheet of white plummeted towards him.
Avalanche.
He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and gritted his teeth against his apparently inevitable death. All at once, he was wrapped in warmth. His pain had faded. He opened his eyes to an expanse of white fog. A figure stepped forward. A dark-haired youth with bags under his eyes. His arms were obviously broken, his face twisted and destroyed, and yet a smile showed beneath it all.
?Thank you, Rahk-Tahl. Now I am among that which I love most. The spirits.?
The world faded, and Rahk-Tahl slept.
Excuse my tardiness. Deadlines tend to not like me.
Because they like the idea but aren't able to commit to it... It's sad but it happens with almost every RP. In one like this it's particularly detrimental because, in effect, it means the games don't really begin until semi-finals (as that's when you've weeded out all the people who couldn't actually keep up.) but the problem itself is identical.
As for you Emu, I've done everyone I said I would (Logician, Krunk and Dasta) so I've got a spot open.
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