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Post by ch00beh on Aug 10, 2010 1:58:15 GMT -5
Liam Genken was aware of the beads of sweat on his forehead, threatening to drip into his eyes. Aleta's twin suns hovered near each other as midsummer approached, both casting rays of heat and light on the Mara-Ma arena, and both not helping to alleviate the man's problem. He was also aware of the roar of the crowd, a constant drone coming from all directions at once. Occasionally, a catcall sounded from the stands behind him, but they were as good as muffled noise. Beyond skin and sound, Liam was aware of the dusty smell of disturbed earth and the pungent stench of active bodies. Most of all, Liam was aware of the man in front of him, as well as the five other combatants scattered around the field. He refused to let any of them out of his sight, and as such, he was farthest from the center of the arena than anyone else. Despite the distance, he could see his goal. Atop a hill of boulders and rocks was a painted bear skull, ready to be claimed by the last man standing. His opponent, Asayo Soris, was dressed in light leather armor and wielded a wooden club and shield, but that was all he needed. They were engaged in a Skull match; the rules of the game did not allow anyone to use a weapon made of material stronger than wood. Fighting was nonlethal, but that did not stop combatants from doing everything they could to incapacitate each other. Liam only had wooden splints tied to his forearms and shins. Beyond that, he had not bothered with any kind of armor. It was what he was most comfortable with; after all, he was a former Tower athlete. He still would be, if Irinios-Ma's team was not disbanded and their arena dismantled after the war... But now was not the time to think about it. Soris had lowered himself behind his shield and was charging. The nearest audience members took notice and almost quieted down. Liam sidestepped the charge, moving towards Soris' unshielded side, even though that was the side with the weapon. His opponent swung his club, and Liam raised his arm to to bat the weapon to the side. With one clack, Liam was inside his opponent's comfort zone. He didn't hesitate to punch the man in the face with his free hand. The crowd erupted in both cheers and boos. Soris stumbled back, but Liam was already on him. He brought his arms in the air as if to hit him over the head, but as his opponent raised his shield, Liam brought his splinted shin into the other man's leg. There was an audible snap. The crowd managed to make even more noise as Soris fell to the ground, screaming in pain. “Asayo Soris has been brought down by Liam Genken! Five combatants are still left, can...” the announcer's voice said, his voice amplified with akaramancy so that everyone in the arena could hear. To Liam, however, it might as well have been said underwater. He was not paying attention. Four opponents left. That was what he was aware of. OOC: Oh, look, it's the pilot episode slash teaser trailer of Aleta. This is invitation only since the world isn't even done yet and this is just a trailer-pilot-thing. Sorry kids.
PS. I can't write!
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Post by Ninety on Aug 13, 2010 0:46:23 GMT -5
Armor does not belong on a warrior.
Skolimar was an imposing beast of a man, always towering over everyone that entered the Skull games. He had crippled more athletes than any two contestants but had yet to win a title. His passion for the game lay in the combat, not the reward. However, after his team had lost every match they'd entered, the giant was through with defeat. He signed up for the free-for-all Skull match the previous day with a grinlek smile that had only grown wider with time's passage.
Skolimar had caught another competitor off-guard and had now corralled him into a corner of the arena. Clad head to toe in wooden plate-armor, Skolimar had thought he was one of those plant-people he'd heard some of the other gladiators talking about before the match. Now that he was in spitting distance he could tell that plantman was just a tiny fellow who had thrown on as much armor as his wiry frame could support in hopes that it would save him. Skolimar recognized the weasel as Hickey, a sniveling wretch that would take food from a child's plate if he knew no one was watching. The panels of Hickey's armor were clacking together as the rodent quivered in a brutish shadow. Skolimar showed still more teeth as he lifted his club, a hunk of wood as monstrous as the hands that held it, out of the hot dust. In a burst of desperate courage, or courageous desperation, Hickey rushed the titan with his own cudgel raised high and an owl's shriek in his throat.
Skolimar swung his tree like he swung the axe that chopped it down and caught the verminous Hickey at the hip, shattering the man's armor and driving thick splinters of the wood into his flesh. The blow hurled Hickey to the ground and sent a ripple of cheers through the crowd; the runt was not a favorite in the contest. Skolimar wasn't through with him yet, though. He hated men like Hickey that would smile in your face at the thought of stabbing you in the back when you turned. Hickey was groaning face down with his arms flat at his side when Skolimar trudged over to the wreck and put his foot in the small of Hickey's back. He bent down and knocked off Hickey's helmet then grabbed his wrists. Standing with both feet on the man's back now, Skolimar pulled on the arms so the pest's face was out of the dirt and in the eyes of the crowd. Readjusting his grip, Skolimar slowly lifted Hickey's arms above his head while keeping them behind his back as the rat screamed himself in and out of consciousness. The crowd was much quieter now and Skolimar could hear the muscles tearing and then the cracks and pops of bones as Hickey's arms were turned every way but natural. He let go when he had pulled the man into a right angle. Skolimar then lifted Hickey off the ground and carried him to where some of the medical magisters had nervously gathered before tossing him at their feet.
"Good luck piecing him back together. I wouldn't waste too much of my time on it."
Skolimar then slogged himself back towards the middle of the arena where there were now just three other competitors.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Aug 16, 2010 19:45:04 GMT -5
The sand here was coarse, gritty. It felt like the sand along the beaches of the Dubunde, the Great Gulf, where he had once run, with tiny feet and a child's wonder, across its pristine alabaster shores.
But this sand was not soaked with the salty topaz of the Gulf. Rather, it was caked and stained with the spilt blood of men, men of all colors made equal, made crimson by the blade and the fury of the victorious. Asafa Sekra qun-Ded felt his feet sinking in to the coagulated earth. He made no gesture to the jeering crowd, no smile, no frown. His tall, wiry frame sported no armor, for none had been afforded him. He was the gratuity in this match, serving no other purpose than to be slaughtered for entertainment. They hissed and called, flinging their flatbread and their wooden implements at him. Telaen-rider, he was. A flea on a beast. A parasite. His black skin was the mark of shame, of filth and pestilence. He would never be equal, so they said. But Asafa knew better. He knew deep in his heart that they would never break him, and that made him more powerful than any white man in the world. He held his head high, with dignity, and made a prayer to the gods for swift feet and steady hands.
His opponent, a displaced Aequian, had made a show of himself to the crowd, having been lucky enough to draw this free victory in the pre-match. He wore loose-fitting wooden plates over his limbs and chest, and his weapon was something Asafa had never seen before - a knurled root, long and thin, but curled over at its end into a vicious knotted club. He tossed it between his hands as his gap-toothed smile crawled across his hairy face.
He leapt forward and stopped, testing Asafa's nerve. The Telaenian offered no response, standing stoic among the chaos. The Aequian frowned grotesquely and rushed the tall Telaenian, growling with rage and bringing the shillelagh around in a wide, sweeping arc. It landed in Asafa's hand with a meaty slap that echoed like the report of an Imikijini rifle through the arena. A roar of surprise rose up from the jeering crowd. He'd stopped the Aequian's attack cold. Had he even moved?
The Aequian was not out of tricks, however. He balled his fist and thrust it heavily into Asafa's gut - only to punch wildly at the dusty air as the Telaenian calmly stepped around him. Before he could bring the club around for a counter, there was a jarring pain in his wrist and the weapon was gone. The Aequian frantically searched the arena - the parasite was gone, where could he have gone, there was no akara-
The club caught him in the left ear and shot blood and gray matter six feet out of his right. The force of the blow sucked his eyes backwards into his skull, and he bit down so violently that his tongue popped out of his lips and dropped into the scarlet sand still twitching. The Aequian's knees buckled, but did not give immediately. The second swing blew his right kneecap into the air like a small pink stone, and the Aequian, dead before he ever knew what happened, toppled to the ground like a wet scarf.
The crowd went silent for a moment, letting the gravity of this defeat sink in. Then they erupted into another series of boos and catcalls, screaming for blood from this tick, this flea that dared walk among them, presuming to be their equal.
Asafa simply turned from their insults and curses. The shillelagh felt comfortable in his hand. Perhaps today was not his day to die.
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Post by ch00beh on Aug 17, 2010 0:28:34 GMT -5
Liam surveyed the battlefield while catching his breath. Loose dirt scraped his boots as he shuffled into the shade of one of the many boulders littering the field. Another body had made its way there, currently unconscious from multiple blows and heat exhaustion. A trail of blood ran through the man's drag trail. Gods he missed the Tower courts. They were the vision of professionalism. Clean before a game, dirty during, and clean again only hours later. A person wouldn't be lying in the grass or clay bleeding in the summer sun for more than a minute... The roar of the crowd brought Liam's attention back to the game. The big brute of a man had just destroyed one of the more disliked contestants. Three left. He could see the results of the brute's work. Unsportsmanlike conduct. Giver grant mercy. You'd never see something like that in Tower. Liam straightened his back. His heart rate was only slightly elevated. His breathing was deep and powerful. Time to go on the offensive. Memories of being one of western Tal-Hydor's top strikers flooded his mind. There was the ball, ready to be kicked into the goal. There it was: the brute's head. Liam charged.
"Nooooooo, y-you see," a woman said to a robed man. "I'm regired. I meannn registered. Here." The woman started patting herself down, though it didn't help, since her hand was met with equal resistance with every touch due to her light plate armor. Her left hand appeared to attempt the same patting motion, but it was busy holding three skewered pieces of meat, precariously waving about as her right hand attempted to find something. Eventually her hand found the pouch on her belt and procurred a crumpled piece of paper. The woman handed it to the official, who had stopped her for sensing akaram stone on her person. The man uncrumpled the paper and began looking it over. "Kaliyana—" "Kali! I. Sorry." The man gave her another disdainful look. "Kaliyana," he emphasized the last part, "Agnés... Pelantesque Court registered blood mage due to... Okay, okay, here, take your damn paper back and don't start any trouble." "Never will!" Kali took her registration form and hastily pushed it back into her pouch as she made her way into the lower seating section. The encounter was starting to give her a mild migraine. Thankfully, the stadium halls weren't crowded and she wouldn't have to fight her way in since the game was on its last legs. The combatants were tired, and the fighting wasn't as intense as the beginning of the fight, but one could still never tell who would win. Eventually, she found her still empty seat. Two other armed men were nearby, and she handed a skewer to each of them. "It toook me one hunderd and thirty eight secs to get here, but I got sstopped by an official for 'possessession of akaram' which took an exta munite or so. I couldn not count while she I mean he was talking. So blaame him if these are co—" The crowd erupted in an unidentifiable emotion. Kali cringed as the mild throbbing in her head became more noticeable. OOC: Surprise! Ch00bs has another female character.
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Post by Ninety on Aug 25, 2010 2:09:31 GMT -5
Penis. Fantastic. Why would I expect Kali to pick up anything else from a vendor?
Harí Troth took the offering but didn't bring it to his mouth. He was not a fan of penis, despite what the rumors surrounding him would have you believe. He wasn't even certain what poor creature had given up its life for such an undesirable cut of meat. Whatever it was, it was certainly popular with the females of its species; its girth was comparable to Troth's forearm. He was actually considering taking a few hunks out of the titanous phallus to lessen his load. Holding the skewer wasn't physically taxing but there's a certain strain that comes with having a large grilled penis in your hand while you sit in a crowd of people. Harí would rather grimace through a few bites of mystery-prick than deal with any more of these giggles and smirks. He frowned then hurriedly tore off a mouthful with closed eyes and chewed slowly.
…Hey, this actually tastes fine. It's overly spicy but it's not deplorable. Harí took another bite with a smile on his face and a shiny brow. By the sixth bite, the sweat was dripping from his nose and he was panting harder than the remaining competitors. His snowy hair stuck to the sides of his face.
"Hey…hey, guys…." Harí coughed a few times and took a deep breath. "Hey, my mouth feels like…well, like I just ate a spicy pecker. Why don't we go see what we can find to quash these flames, eh?"
He slapped his comrades on the legs as he stood and then loped down the aisle shouting for refreshments.
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Post by ch00beh on Aug 25, 2010 13:38:09 GMT -5
"There gooddd, right?" Kali took a bite out of her piece of meat, blissfully unaware of what it actually was, and gulped it down. There were rumors that the blood magic had caused her to lose most feeling in her mouth. This was probably the best evidence for that hypothesis. "They were super cheap and the biggs pisces of, uh, what do you caall it."
Kali stopped to think. She took another bite, thoughtfully chewing the questionable meat. "I forgets what the word was. It starts with an 'n,' though. And rhythms with MEEP. I think."
"Neep, neat, knees..." Kali's progression of words got quieter and quieter as she stumbled in thought. "Hey where are you going the fight's about to did you say you're getting drinks I'm thirsty."
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Aug 26, 2010 8:35:27 GMT -5
They're gonna massacre that kufu, the Imikijini thought to himself, for killing that Aequian.. He had half a mind to not let them. He knew the feeling. Some people would never be welcome.
Jafa Hakal, 'Jeff' to his friends, kicked his feet up and lounged against the grimy wooden bleachers, his rifle propped up next to him, carefully wrapped in patterned canvas. Unlike Kali, who would always throw red flags for the akaram in her blood, it was understood that an Imikijini and his rifle were never parted, under any circumstances, and he'd had no trouble at the gates with his weapon loosely slung over one shoulder.
His mouth watered. Come to think of it, his eyes were starting to tear up, too. And what was that taste on his tongue? He turned his attention away from the match to glance at Hari. Was that... oh no. Jafa pulled his rebreather off and spat disgustedly into the floorboards.
"Gods, Hari, you could eat skewered magma and not break sweat." Jafa hacked as another wave of spice broke across his tongue. Akaram blood bonded men, and the telepathic link he and Thoth shared afforded him the unfortunate empathy of sharing tastes and smells, two things for which Hari was diabolically notorious for.
The Imikijini sniper stood, returning his breather to his face and adjusting the leather straps that held it around his head. He was completely concealed by his dress, a very traditional Imikijini custom, rarely practiced by those that did not live in the heartland of the Desert. What flesh was not covered by robes and trappings was wrapped tightly with thin bandages, flexible and breathable. The rebreather was certainly not required, but years of use in the Desert had made Jafa very accustomed to wearing it. Goggles obscured his eyes, the lenses glittering in the afternoon sun.
"Let's go. I need something to wash this filth out."
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Post by Ninety on Sept 5, 2010 12:20:54 GMT -5
"Jeff, why don't you have a taste of my kebab. I'm sure it'll fit your palate well enough."
Harí thought about the implications of that line and quickly moved to more pressing matters.
"Look, this game's getting stale now that everyone's snapped in half. Let's go find a drink with some bite to it. I don't want to be walking in a straight line for much longer."
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Post by ch00beh on Sept 5, 2010 13:28:17 GMT -5
*** The world was momentarily upside down. This was never a good sign. Liam hit the ground on his back, sliding along the coarse earth before coming to a stop. Sharp rocks dug into his unarmored body, tearing the skin more than it already was. The twin suns still beamed their intense heat on his face. The crowd was shouting all sorts of things as their fight had reached its climax and seemed to end with the former Tower player taking a massive hit. It felt like everything– the suns, the crowds, the rocks– were mocking him. It was like they were mocking his past, his city, even his fight. Liam propped himself up on his elbows. The big brute of a man stood there, smiling like a madman, patting the palm of his hand with his oversized club. This was not going well, and was probably not going to end well. Skolimar took a step forward. Liam instinctively scooted back along the ground. Some of the audience laughed. He could hear things falling around him as the judging crowd threw things. No. This was not how he was going down. There was a small clack as a plank of wood landed next to Liam's hand. The man eyed it, then looked back at Skolimar. The brute took another step forward. Liam quickly took hold of the piece of wood and flung it at the brute's head, springing back to his feet as the big man batted away the projectile. He winced as the fresh wounds on his arms and back stretched. Skolimar continued to advance. The man didn't even look like he had sustained any lasting damage from the previous assault. That didn't matter; Liam was not going down without a fight. Liam charged, again. He watched for the club. There. He ducked. The backswing he jumped over. As soon as he landed, Liam reared back and punched Skolimar in the side, right under his ribs. The only response he got was the big brute's free hand grabbing him by the forearm. Liam tried to wrench himself free. His opponent had one hell of a grip. He was smiling his death smile again. Liam did the only thing he could think of: bash the brute's fingers with his other arm. urghhhh can't write combat
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Sept 12, 2010 19:55:04 GMT -5
Asafa turned to where the giant Skolimar had tracked down the warrior Genken, the favorite in this match. He'd been a Tower champion, once upon a time. Now he was just a vagrant like the rest of them.
He tested the weight of the shillelagh in his hand and pondered letting the brute strangle him - spare him the effort of a fight.
With a graceful swing and powerful release, Asafa flung the shillelagh end-over-end at Skolimar's thick skull. The knurled wood tore through the air, twirling viciously.
I'd rather kill you last, Tower man, Asafa thought to himself as he sprinted to Liam's defense.
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Post by Ninety on Sept 18, 2010 22:59:50 GMT -5
Skolimar was laughing at the athlete's attempts to free his arm when the club struck the back of his head, where spine and skull meet. The connection was severed and Skolimar could no longer feel anything below his jaw. As he fell to the ground, the edges of his vision grew darker and darker until nothing remained. The dirt billowed around him from his crash and the air in his lungs spewed into the earth. His soul escaped with his last breath and mixed with the cloud before they both dissipated, left only as memories to their witnesses.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Hey, fatty! Tubbs! Barkeep! Come on, man, we know you've got what we're looking for so drop the act and open the tap."
Harí jumped up and down with both hands on the counter, stretching his neck to the fullest as he tried to spot the casks he knew were stored somewhere below. Every Skull match was bound to have some illegal liquor vendors looking to capitalize on the large crowds and overworked security forces. Harí and company had roughed up the seediest bystanders until one of them pointed to an alley with one hand while the other wiped the blood seeping out of his newly broken nose. The alley had led to a stairwell which, in turn, led them down into a dim chamber where filthy chairs and tables were sitting beneath even filthier patrons. At the far end was the bar that Harí was now trying to climb his way over. A hand pulled at his belt and dragged him to the floor.
"Hey now, you little fairy. Didn't your mother teach you to ask nicely?" A stocky man with an unkempt beard stood over Harí. "Here, I'll show you how it's done. Why don't you please take off that shiny armor and hand over that pretty little knife of yours? I'd be ever so grateful and you'd get to walk out of here with your eyes in your sockets." A few more greasy individuals had gathered behind him, a few cracked their knuckles.
Harí jumped to his feet and once again threw himself atop the grungy countertop.
"Kali, Jafa, talk to our friends while I go strangle this bartender and get us something to drink. Hey-get-back-here-I'm-not-through-with-you..."
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Post by ch00beh on Sept 20, 2010 14:50:28 GMT -5
"Heyyy, Harí your keep being mean toward people!" Kali stammered as her comrade started calling the bartender names. Just like every other time before, her stutters went completely unheard by the man who was completely focused on quenching his thirst.
She attempted to sputter once more, then gave up, moving to the left of the bar to lean on the cold stone wall. She couldn't feel the rough masonry through her layer of steel armor. Even if she could, between the armor and the rock was a shield made from the carapace of some creature.
The memory of receiving the heirloom suddenly seeped into the blood mage's mind. Unannounced reveries happened quite often, and she long ago learned that trying to suppress them was futile. Also, she couldn't recall them with clarity when she wanted to any more. It was only logical to let the memories flow, enjoying them as they sloshed around her mind.
Soft hands. She remembered soft hands. She was still young, around ten, when she decided to be a magister. The girl's Hydorian father and Telaenian mother had raised her in the southwest region of Tal-Hydor, practically on the edge of the Alurile, and almost on the opposite side of the country from the Pelantesque area. Even if her family could afford the train, the nearest stop was far to the north. Her mother never objected to the girl traveling alone, since it was a Telaenian obligation to leave one's home and brave the world without parental protection, on the condition that she made the money by herself.
It took two years of work around the small city (the name of which had flitted briefly through the woman's mind before sinking back into the akaram-damaged regions of her brain), mostly as a blacksmith's assistant, to make the money. As a parting gift and as a means for self defense, the girl's mother gave her a Telaen carapace shield. Compared to the steel shields she had forged before, her mother's kite shield was fairly light to hold.
Kali snapped out of her memory and looked down at her hands, now callused from the blacksmithing of her past and the fighting of her present. She noticed the brown and red residue of drying blood around her knuckles, so she tried her best to wipe it away on her pants. The blood was not hers, of course; she had to punch that man in the nose earlier because he was about to pull out a knife. It was all preemptive self defense. It was then that she noticed someone pulling Harí off the counter. What was he even doing there in the first place?
Oh yeah! Trying to get a drink!
Harí completely ignored the man who took him down and started trying to get back onto the bar. He was always so strange. Ever since she met him on her way to the train station all those years back...
"Why don't you please take off that shiny armor and hand over that pretty little knife of yours? I'd be ever so grateful and you'd get to walk out of here with your eyes in your sockets."
Kali immediately smothered the surfacing memory. Threats and robbery were one of those things that could make reliving the past wait.
An arm reached out to take Harí off the bar once again but before the fingers could take hold of the man's belt, Kali's right hand was wrapped around the offending wrist. Her left hand was reaching back for the shield and as soon as she got a hold of it, she slammed the hard frame into the man's shoulder. There was an audible pop.
"I don't not really like that when someone wwwants my stufff without my persimmon I mean permission."
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Sept 21, 2010 0:48:04 GMT -5
One of the thugs advanced on Hari, looking for the easy blindside. Suddenly, he felt a sharp blow to the chest, and then he was moving - no, he was being forced backwards. He looked down to see a cloth swaddle grinding into his solar plexus, clearly wrapped around a very blunt object.
Jafa shoved the vagrant back another step and pulled his rifle back, gripping it in both hands. "You've overstepped your territory, gentlemen." he spoke gravely. The beater and one of his cronies snickered in response.
"Oh ho, got us a real-life Amakookanook! Hey, you're a lot taller in real life, ya know? Hey, hey, breathe sand for us, wouldja?! Heck, maybe you'll shoot me with that snappy little shooter of yours, won'tcha?" Sentiments were not cultivated in the lower reaches of Aletan culture, Jafa could see. He thought of the gladiator Asafa out there in the red sand. He could relate.
"Why don't you take your googly-eyes and your pea shooter and just piss off, you damn lousy weka-HURK"
Jafa had him by the throat before anyone could react. With a single flex he lifted the man completely off the ground and held him there, eyes burning behind the dusty glass of his goggles. The man kicked wildly and gasped for air, eyes bulging and lips turning purple as he scrabbled at the Imikijini's iron grip. His friend had stepped back at the surprising attack and was now frozen with fear.
"Say it again."
"hurk... HK... hu... cnt... breth... hurr"
Jafa squeezed tighter. "Say it."
The thug leveled a swollen eye at the Shield marksman's face and spluttered a pitiful line of phlegm down his chin and onto Jafa's fist.
"hrk... hu... dam... losy... nng... wekalat... !!!"
Jafa rounded on his heel and threw the man headfirst into the wall. The sound of his spine folding violenty into his braincase echoed over the crunch of cracking masonry. The Shield turned to the remaining group, now gathering around him, the new threat. He remained stoic.
He hated that word.
Jafa drew himself up to his full height and cleared his throat. It was time to educate.
"Put down your weapons and do not run," he began, and almost immediately men began to break rank and stumble away into the crowd. Smart men. The marksman continued, "I, Jafa Hakal, Shield of the Falling Sky, conscript any and all lawbreakers present into the Order. Those who refuse or resist are condemned to death," he leveled his hidden stare at those remaining, "or worse - training."
The silence was palpable. They were standing their ground, it seemed. Jafa squeezed his hands and the knuckles popped loud enough to make a few of them jump in fright. The Shield chuckled. This would be a good day for recruitment.
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Post by Tout-Perd on Sept 26, 2010 11:10:59 GMT -5
A singular figure stood out from the crowd, with few coming too close to him. The less-well traveled kept glancing over at the individual, and then taking another look, as if he’d have changed in the time between blinks. The air around him hung heavily with an earthy scent, clearly from the soil mottling his unevenly tanned skin. His nose wrinkled, and the abnormally large pores deepened. What seemed like a tunic that had bits of cloth removed piecemeal until only the parts necessary for preserving decency remained draped from his shoulders, similarly smothered in loam. His hair was long and matted, but had no grease to it, seemingly in good condition despite its neglect. Such… Utterly barbaric ways… He rested his sharp chin upon his palm, his nails, like miniature truncheons, tapping away at his cheek. Still, this iiis the only way to see such things. In Ortigue, such behaviors would quickly be dealt with by the guardians inherent to any region. A few images slipped through his mind… A foot, placed without care, brushing the trigger hairs of a masterpiece, and causing a venomous wooden barb to shoot through. A punch, thrown without careful movement, shifting the shadows as they played across another work of his. The shrapnel from the burst had torn out a chunk of the foreigner. Whatever it was between the bow-shaped bone beneath his neck and the girdle of bones at the waist. Yes, indeed, whatever it was that they called it between those two spots. That had been ripped out. And yet still, I’m only a low level craftsman… Truly, what wonders the elders have wrought! He smiled, baring dentistry that showed molars where canines would be on the ordinary folk. “Buddy, you’ve got something on your arm,” A voice came from behind him. The same thuggish accent that it seemed they all possessed around here. “Yes, yes, of course I do. It is only proper that I would,” He glanced at his right forearm. The étiq vine was still growing healthily, as it had since he had made it as a youth. Its small roots anchored themselves in his pores, leeching nutrients from the blood that was in his… whatever the small veins were. The tip felt the twitch in his muscles, and the cells along one side grew. This turned the stalk so it was facing outwards, ready to sow his étiq flower when pressed against a work of his. No, he didn’t need to do that right now. He lowered his left hand, and glanced at the back of it. A small, four petaled blossom was set there, the same seed that came from the vine on his right. Any Ortigian that met him would see that flower, and instantly know what works were his own. The purple and yellow stripes, vividly speckled with sky-blue, the four stamens, thrust out exactly between the petals, oh yes, they’d know at a single glance that he was indeed Virid Bouchacre. “Why would you have some plant dangling on your arm?” Brutish fingers, calloused but without the noble positioning of Ortigian callouses, tugged at the étiq vine. He felt a single rootlet pluck free, and acted instantly. His left hand flew into the inside of the cloth band across his chest, drawing a seed pod from the brul bush between two fingers. He slapped it against the face of the man, the pressure taking effect more quickly that any sapient being could hope to react. The striations along the green ovoid split, and snapped towards the source of the pressure. Thousands of tiny serrated hairs took hold, some finding purchase upon the surface of the man’s eye. In nature, these would hold the seed pod to an unfortunate animal while it hurriedly moved away from the bush, allowing better dispersion. Then the second part hit. A pocket containing an urticating dust ruptured, coating both men in the powder as if it were a haze of smoke. Virid blinked his third eyelid, sweeping the dust from his vision. Though he had farmed the bushes long, and had become immune to the powder, it seemed this man had not. Without immunity, the powder was very unpleasant. It caused an inescapable burning sensation, a massively quickened heartrate, and vastly more sensitive pain receptors, especially at the sites of scrapes, such as the ones in this individual’s eye. This powder served as a way of motivating animals carrying seed pods to move rapidly away, ensuring its deposition at a far distant spot. The man ran away screaming in a way Virid had not heard since he last integrated a man to the Grand Wall. He tripped over the row of seats behind him, and flailed on the ground there, cursing and weeping. With that, the Ortigian returned his gaze to the match. There were only two men left now, and they seemed to be sizing eachother up for a final clash. Virid decided to pay good attention to this, to the way their muscles moved and their blows dealt damaged their physiology. After all, one could not find violence such as this in Ortigue. OOC: Gee, FNG is just rife with thoughtless violence!
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Post by ch00beh on Sept 26, 2010 12:22:59 GMT -5
OOC: I should have told you to break one of the guy's bones so that we could continue that trend. Liam panted heavily. He was not going to pretend that he still had the strength to continue with non-stop fighting. It had been a long match, and it took everything he had to not lie down and take a small break. He knew he couldn't, however. Not with that murderous Telaenian staring him down. He knew a Telaenian before, in his Tower days. Nesya Panalo qun Ail. He was a good man, and one of the best attackers he had the pleasure of playing with. He lost his life when he stated his intention of joining Solus' rebellion. A waste. Of the two Telaenian's pasts, Liam could only speculate. But now was not the time. More than ever, it was not the time to get lost in thought. Now was the time to feel the sun on his skin, the dirt under his boots, and the sweat on his brow. Now was the time to hear the dull roar of the crowd, the beat of his heart, and the crunching footsteps of his opponent. Now was the time to not lose. The dark skinned man in front of him was not playing by the rules; at this moment, it was either win this match or die. Losing was never an option. In his 10 years of professional athleticism, losing had never been an option. Liam eyed his opponent from head to toe, taking in the man's toned muscles and glaring eyes. His gaze stopped on the gnarled root in the man's hands, the wooden implement dripping with more than just blood. Monstrous. "You reflect poorly on your people, Telaenian. May the Taker cut turmoil from your mind, and may the Giver grant peace on your soul, for I will not have pity on your body," Liam said through gritted teeth. He stepped back into a stable stance and clenched his fists.
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Sept 29, 2010 21:04:37 GMT -5
"My people? What do you know of my people?"
Asafa spat in the blood-packed dirt. He flexed his fingers around the shillelagh.
"Your opinions count for nothing here. Don't you know that? In a few moments one of us will be dead. My disgrace. Your disgrace. None of it holds weight here."
Asafa narrowed his thin eyes at Liam. With a reflexive snap of his wrist, the shillelagh went twirling into the sand across the arena. Slowly he brought his long hands up to a fighting stance, keeping the fingers extended, relaxed. "If I'm to kill you, then I expect to kill you fairly."
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Post by ch00beh on Oct 6, 2010 10:07:48 GMT -5
"That is the Telaenian I know," Liam said. He began unfastening the straps that bound the wooden splints to his arms. "I can respect a fair fight."
The man didn't take his eyes off his opponent as he knelt down to remove his shin splints. "And what do I know of your people? I know your people are stronger than most Hydorians, and I know your people are proud."
Liam stood up and took his stable stance again. "But I do not intend to lose."
He clenched his fists then dashed forward.
The bar was a mess. Tables and chairs were not only overturned but shattered. Fresh crimson splashes painted the furniture and walls, dripping and pooling onto the ground beside the moaning and not moaning bodies. Several pillars of earth that were not present before protruded almost at random from every angle. Despite being underground, and despite the only entrance being barred shut by a stone pillar, the dust did not just hang in the air; it swirled and flowed, pushed by a sourceless wind.
A low hum that had permeated the atmosphere stopped, and the faint tone was better perceived by its absence than its presence. The dust stopped moving. What appeared to be a giant shield-bearing statue moved then began to fall apart. Clods of dirt and chunks of stone fell off the figure's body, revealing glimmers of flesh, cloth, leather, and metal underneath. It shook its head, revealing a woman's face with miss-matched eyes and whitening hair. Kali ran her large hand through her tied-back hair to get more of the dirt out.
The young woman stepped off the rock "feet" she created to raise her wide frame over most of the combatants. They crumbled to dust immediately after. She looked down at the vagrants and counted them out. Her hands searched the various pouches around her belt again then pulled out several neatly folded pieces of paper, exactly equal to the number of bodies lying on the floor. She placed them on the still intact bar counter.
The young woman proceeded to the nearest pillar (which was jutting out of the wall and thrust itself into the floor) and placed a hand on it, looking it up and down to examine the structure. After a moment, Kali took her other hand, now covered in her own blood, and drew a symbol on the floor next to the pillar. Her blood seemed to glow, then the structure crumbled from the wall and receded into the earth, and when the ground was sufficiently flat, Kali swiped her cleaner hand through the symbol to break the lines.
The young woman stood up and walked to the next pillar to examine it.
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Post by Ninety on Oct 11, 2010 20:49:01 GMT -5
There was a rustling and then the sounds of glass knocking against glass as Harí stood up from behind the bar holding several amber bottles by their necks.
"I found the sauce, guys!"
He set them all on the counter, save one that he uncorked and guzzled. Harí drained the bottle and then let out a satisfied belch while he looked around the chamber.
"What'd I miss?"
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Post by The Evil Biscuit on Nov 3, 2010 20:11:26 GMT -5
All in all, they'd put down seven. Not a bad workout, Jeff thought to himself as he smoothed the wrinkles in his wrappings. It spoke highly of their ability as Shields; a warrior proficient at battling the jgélðrn should be thought capable of engaging a small army of simple men.
The defeated vagabonds were arranged in a low pile, crippled and bruised and beaten speechless, then tossed together like sacks of waste for the furnaces. Jafa produced a small, smooth stone from the folds of his robes and crouched down next to one, lying on his back atop the cluster of arms and legs and groaning toothless mouths. He held the stone to the light so the vagrant could see it clearly. His voice was hollow through the breather - he'd put it back on to slow his breathing and calm his adrenaline.
"You know what this is, friend?"
The thug coughed a hoarse reply. Jafa sighed.
"You've two choices here, conscript. You can accept your duty as a Shield and report for training by sunset tomorrow, or you can renounce me a second time and suffer the consequence. What say you?"
The man gasped through bloodied teeth, but nodded his head in feeble acceptance. Jafa took the man's hand and rubbed the stone across the top of his knuckles. There was a faint hiss, and the crisp odor of searing flesh filled the air. Jafa drew the stone away, leaving behind a blackened runeform, burnt into the flesh. The mark would stay with the man throughout his Shield training, only removed upon his confirmation ceremony. To have the mark on one's hand meant he had accepted his duty with honor. Jafa turned to the next man in the pile. He greeted the Shield with a phlegmy spit that splattered on the Imikijini's boot. Jafa was unfazed. "Same question, conscript. Will you serve?"
"Go jump the Edge, sandcrawler!" the vagrant hissed. He was pinned under the bodies of his comrades, and only his head and shoulders were visible. "Take your whole damn army with you!"
Jafa smirked. "Wrong answer, conscript," he whispered as he pressed the stone into the man's forehead. The hissing was much louder, and the thug screeched in agony as the runeform crackled and sizzled into the soft skin between his eyes. This mark was the same as before, but to bear it on one's forehead was a constant reminder of shame, a brand that told every man in sight that he had renounced his duty like a coward. Only through proving his worth as a Shield soldier could the brand be removed. It also prevented desertion, as the mark was easily recognized and the law very stringent on such cowardice. The Imikijini glanced at the remaining five men in the pile. The stone twirled between his fingers.
"Anyone else want to renounce?"
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Five hands later, the conscripting stone was back in Jafa's pocket and the rifle slung again across his shoulder. He looked over at Kali, who was busying herself putting the last of her earthmoving to its original state. Hari had consumed well more than his share of the liquor, and was no doubt well into the Imikijini's portions.
"So, I suppose we can return to the game, then?"
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Post by ch00beh on Nov 4, 2010 8:00:51 GMT -5
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