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Thread: Round 4: Enchanter (Emonalach) VS. Necromancer (Sabriel) - Judge dakkagor

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    Default Round 4: Enchanter (Emonalach) VS. Necromancer (Sabriel) - Judge dakkagor

    “That’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?”

    Normally, in this crowded, up-scale restaurant, aboard the Star Liner Penesthalia it was difficult to get a window seat. But it was empty. Mostly. He looked at the half empty bottle in front of him on the table, eyes flicking over the label. 2298, a good year on the Europa colonies. He poured himself a glass, savoured the smell, and sipped.

    “Not bad. Not bad at all.” He swished the wine around the glass, before placing it back on the abandoned table he had claimed. His dining partner wasn't saying much back, thanks to the ragged hole in his chest and the way his blood pooled over his fine suit and down his legs as he sprawled over his chair. A few other diners had met similar fates a few minutes ago, thanks to a band of riotous ruffians who had raided this cruise liner, stolen all the valuables, shot a lot of people, and then attached demolition charges to its reactor.

    He picked up a fork and started to dig into a fine looking pasta carbonara that had been abandoned in haste by its previous owners, when the deck shivered underneath his seat. The warning klaxons continued to blare, and digital signs directed any remaining passengers to the escape craft. The view out the windows shifted, and gravity flickered for a second.

    “Well, better get on with it. That last one was a damp squib anyway.”

    He snapped his fingers and the two warriors appeared in the middle of the hastily abandoned restaurant. The deck shivered and groaned as metals past their tolerance tore and broke. Klaxons wailed, and neon arrows pointed to the exits.

    “Well done to you both for making it this far. As usual, only one of you will proceed. This promises to be a night to remember.”

    Somewhere distant, an explosion echoed down a corridor, and the screams of the dead and the dying wafted into the abandoned restaurant.
    The gravity failed. Immediately, tables and chairs began to float free of the floor.
    Somewhere, a band started playing a familiar, mournful hymn

    “Right you two, hop to it! Or float, whichever.”

    OOC :

    The arena is an upscale restaurant, with windows that do indeed view out into space. Meals, drinks and many personal items have been abandoned in a mad scramble to get to the escape pods, and now the gravity has failed, leaving your fighters in Zero-G.
    The arena master is sitting at a table, enjoying a nice dinner of stolen pasta and wine. If you want to interact with him, contact me via PM before posting.
    You have 72 hours to post, and first post goes to Necromancer. No extensions will be given this round unless its a serious, provable emergency. You’ve made it this far, and only a poster on the ball will make it to the finals.
    Good luck to you both!
    Last edited by dakkagor; 08-09-2015 at 08:02 PM.

  2. #2
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    Sabriel, Round IV - "A hundred hundred heartbeats, no more—and I must win a battle against a terrible enemy."

    The tombs of sand lay behind her, the hourglass in the office now toppled. Through fields of fire she had persevered to the point where only one remained; Sabriel, death's enduring herald. All had been flame and a straight and narrow path, but with a blink it was just as quickly vanished.

    There had been familiarity in the tombs, a sense of innate understanding for their purpose and presence. That place was easily comprehended in its nature by her, as was that of the office and of the fiery field. All three arenas had contained some resemblance, a foundation of recognition that had put her at relative ease. The place she was now transported to, however, was entirely foreign in all its design.

    The first thing she noticed were the screams.

    Like rushing water they drowned her thoughts, so deafening was their presence. Anguish and desperation blanketed her conscience and consciousness, tearing her very memories - what few she had garnered - out from the folds of her mind. Her hands shot to her ears, but it did not dull the sound. The terror was within her, and naught could be done to cease it.

    Sabriel had heard the whisper of the dead, but not their harrowing roar. No time could be recalled in which her mental faculties had been so thoroughly assaulted; it seemed the very walls of her skull would collapse and spill their contents. Mothers wept, children screeched, and men bellowed out their last. All manner of death knell echoed around her mind.

    Taking a calming breath, she tried to parse out each voice separately. Things viewed as a whole often overwhelmed but when seen independently they could be dealt with. Focusing on each singular voice, she tried to find the common cause for their unrest, the reason for their expulsion from their earthly coils. One word ran repeated, one coarse reflection could be seen: bandits!

    She whimpered, she could not help herself. Fearing for your own life was one thing, but having the loss of so many others come crashing down upon you was... no living creature could possibly know the weight of it. There were no words.

    Slowly, with tears brimming, she heard another voice. It was one not belonging to the departed, and one she had previously encountered. Where had she heard it?

    "-nly one of you will proceed. This promises to be a night to remember."

    She saw the man, dining across from the dead woman, but it was not his face she counted recognizable. It was his voice. Where had she heard it? Deathly echoes clamored around her mind's ear, sending shivers down her spine.

    Where have I heard it?!

    And then she heard some band begin to play, its song wafting through the restaurant. The sound of it all, this mixing maelstrom of music and mania, did not help her one bit. She had not struggled so hard to keep her mind set since... when was it? With the goblin? That was when! Him and his arrows, his pointed stock which could not save him.

    Think of father, think of him...

    She tried to reach that calm serenity she had once held again yet the best she could find was relative normalcy. Her mind was burdened with the load. All was as pain and ending.

    "Right you two, hop to it!"

    That voice...

    "Or float..."

    Isn't that...

    "Whichever.”

    "You're the man from the hourglass!"

    Sabriel had found her grounding; the deadened voices still remained but they were as cicadas in the summer to her now, not the torrent of an ocean storm they had been. Clinging to her remembrance of the man from the hourglass, she took in the surroundings quickly.

    Nothing seemed familiar: not the weave of the carpets, not the curve of the drinking glasses, not the lights or the bottles or the tables. The sky outside the restaurant was a stranger. But that was not the sky, that was the heavens! Where had they been transported to?

    Fighting off the disorientation which had so plagued her, Sabriel came to her own senses. Glancing down, she discovered another disturbance: her feet were not planted upon the floor! She was floating! Various objects hung in the air like light snow gripping at the wind or stringless baubles hanging from a winter tree. She realized her upset stomach was not related to the ache in her head the dead voices caused her. Noting her lack of hunger and tiredness, she turned to face the other man their captor and judge had addressed.

    In a bout of relief, she realized he looked more similar to her than he did to the surroundings. Her fellow prisoner's hair was almost as black as hers, but his skin was darker. His eyes carried the sunken look of someone who had seen too much in life; the same one the Chronomancer had carried. It was likely, however, that this was something he had not encountered before. He too was presumably just as thrown off by the circumstances as she was.

    Meanwhile their warden sat there dining, serene as could be. Her eyes flickered to her supposed opponent again. Back and forth, between the two men once more.

    A great roiling of emotion built up within her. It was an anger seated at the right hand of righteousness. One thing was certain; here, unlike any where before, she had a chance.

    "Come on then."

    She turned away from the two of them and began to sprint. Only, her feet did not connect to the ground in the way she was used to. Lifting slightly higher and setting to collide with the ceiling, hands flung out to steady herself. It was like flying! How it was possible, she did not know and could not dwell upon. Once her hands were placed on the odd tiles, she attempted to stop herself, only to find that that majority of her body continued onwards.

    It was like trying to quit a fall you were already caught in; no arm waving or movement of the torso could undo the momentum. Every twitch of every muscle was to no avail and she could do nothing to impede her body's own progress. She slipped through the space like hot butter on glass. Allowing her body to press against the ceiling, she tried to find a foothold. The toe of her right boot caught some sort of concave well, and she used what pressure that was there to launch herself away from the two men, heading towards a stairwell on the other side or the expensive looking room.

    As Sabriel swam through the air, she did a quick pat down of her person to search for her belongings. The bells still clung to her belt, now joined by two new ones. More friends of hers. A brief grin flashed across her face before she looked to see if her sword was still in her scabbard. No skeletal cat, though; but she had expected that. It was just her, the dead, the presumed foe, and the Man with the Hourglass Voice.

    Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she tried to stop herself, rather unsuccessfully. Looking back over her shoulder to see the raven-haired man still next to their captor, she called out to him, waving forward. "Well! Come on! We can't stay in this room! You need to come with me." She was trying to be vague; she didn't want the Hourglass Man to know just yet what she was plotting.
    Last edited by Juicesir; 08-17-2015 at 08:50 AM.

  3. #3
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    Default Hangman, Hermit, Empress, Star

    The celestial beyonds expanded before the Fallen as the white most dissipated, his pupils dilating at the readjustment of light. Dull neon shades of sea foam starlight glimmered sprightly in the reflection of the window while a calm, warm saturation lay upon the cozy indoors. Disturbances in the form of dark crimson flecks and puddles shattered the typical atmosphere of a comfortable sheltered lifestyle, for said restaurant harbored a plethora of cadavers. The sounds of unknown calamity spread like a wildfire in the rooms beyond the lounge, providing an unparalleled sense of dread in their macabre hospitality.

    What a pleasant establishment.

    The smell of freshly-spilled blood tickled his nostrils, triggering a flinch under the curve of his nose. His mind became suddenly overwhelmed by the plagues of his past, calling to memory a white-haired fellow and conversations of his return. The Blood of Pandora—meaning of which escaped the Enchanter—was what he thirsted for more than any opponents’ innards…but to become mortal? He must’ve found it, for how could his entity reside in this ephemeral frame otherwise? If he sought terminal existence in the past, then what changed?

    Morgan.


    The sudden adjustment—rather, absence—of gravity returned Emonalach’s thoughts to the current situation. His new arena was not unlike that of his shortened duel with the Golem, so the weightlessness in his chest was a familiar feeling. Before he had a chance to leave the ground, he grabbed onto the railing at his side, pulling down to keep his feet on the floor. Only then did he take the chance to analyze his fellow occupants.

    The first one, a man who still somehow remained planted to the floor with his succulent dinner and virtuous red wine, seemed to radiate with competence and contentment despite their apparent cataclysm. Brow relaxed, jawline firm yet unclenched, staring ahead without passion nor excitement; he uncannily reminded the Enchanter of his own persona. However, while the Enchanter’s eyes spoke volumes of his age and weathered soul, this man’s gaze was spry and self-satisfied while still retaining a greater statement of wisdom.

    But the Fallen knew that this was not his opponent. This was his master.

    The second one, a lady—rather, a girl—with tangled black hair, robes of a similar hue that fit to her slender frame, and contrasting icy skin, showed visual strife from the very beginning. Something tortured her to no end, a mental pestilence evident from the clutching over her head. A leather strap looped around her waist, holding metallic handles of what could only be dampened bells. She did not appear properly strengthened to wield the sword at her side, but regardless, the Enchanter did not see her as fresh meat that her appearance betrayed. No entertainment could be derived from pitiful slaughter. Whatever she was, she was anything but helpless.

    Perhaps the bells…

    “Right you two, hop to it! Or float, whichever.”

    Emonalach’s head whipped to the gentleman’s autocratic demand, annoyance tickling his irises. Envy and malice flooded his insides, but he settled before they could visually emerge. Despite his unfathomable pride shouting at him to strike the dining man down, the Enchanter held his tongue. He was not so imprudent as to besiege the mannerly diner. He was entertainment for this master, nothing more, nothing less. The only way for him to survive this encounter and unveil his disputed transient principle was to impress this man with the pale girl's blood. He knew, however, that he would not be satisfied with simple sport.

    He needed to do something completely unpredictable and emerge unscathed.

    Therefore, when the girl haphazardly navigated to the bottom of the staircase and called for him to follow, Emonalach sighed, released his grip upon the rail, and pushed with his feet off the ground, angling himself to drift parallel with the floor. He meandered slowly through the cluttered air, propelling himself further with other floating tables and chairs. When he arrived upon the top of the stairs, he reached for the railing next to it and halted his forward velocity, pulling his feet back to the bloodstained carpet to the best of his ability. Cold, sunken eyes frowned at the top of her midnight-clad head, his brow lowering in a curious analysis.

    "And why should I do that?"

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    Default With Assistance in Description from Our Judge

    As the bearded man with the world-worn eyes floated past her up the stairs, Sabriel's ears again were filled with the sorrowful aftershocks of the dead strewn about. Their cries were like embers dancing up from the fire, ones that only she could perceive. What beauty that could be found in the furnishings and decorations was lost on her. Where there was a chair, she saw blood. Where there was refinement, she saw ruin.

    Discordance danced about her brain. The dulling ache of those who had passed on here was manageable yet still distracting. It took a moment for her to realize that the bearded man in the long, stylish jacket had floated on up to the top of the stairs. His efforts of movement were not as labored as hers. Sublime composure suffused his presence even in this mismatched environment. Glancing back to make sure their captor was still seated at his macabre meal, she floated up the stairs with the guiding aid of the banister. Black hair bobbed loosely upon her scalp, and her robes waved with the motion of her passage. While their present circumstances were not enjoyable, she thought she could get used to the weightlessness of it all.

    As Sabriel progressed upwards, a wondrous scene crept upon her sight. What appeared to be some sort of indoor market was on the next level up from the restaurant, though it was like nothing she had ever seen. The objects for sale were treated more like paintings displayed in a gallery, and a great glass ceiling opened up to the wide beyond.

    Sabriel caught herself staring at this last fixture the most, her mouth agape. There had been clear nights in her life; the vision of the heavens above was not new to her. Yet here, contained in this place, was a view she had never experienced before. It was as if the celestial beings themselves were right there, dripping as diamonds upon the neck of ebony nothingness supporting them.

    Closing her mouth, she quickly took in the rest of their surroundings. What design the room had began to remind her more and more of a fancy market promenade you could find in larger cities, a place where resplendent couples walked arm in arm to glance along the row of wares. She wondered how many lovers lay at her feat now, how many hearts had beat for one another, only to be silenced.

    The room they were in was two layered, with the staircase intended to allow for access to both the two tiers of this market gallery and the restaurant below. The trinkets of the store hovered above their displays, seemingly right at home beside the also hovering corpses and floating motes of now congealed blood. In what appeared to be a sort of tailor's station, many garments were now aflame, the tongues of their fires lashing out in strange ways with the lack of earth binding them downwards.

    While many bodies wore suits and dresses, others were clad in sea-blue uniforms. Looking at their hips, Sabriel spotted belts not unlike her. While her bandoleer clasped bells and a sword, the uniformed guards had something different hanging on theirs. The objects were some sort of metallic device with a barrel that curved into a grip; the fact they were at the sides of these men and women clearly meant they were some sort of weapon.

    As Sabriel again glanced to the glass ceiling, she could make out tiny objects darting away from the vessel they apparently occupied. Launching themselves from different points out into the void, these silvered pods only escaped to a certain distance before they were obliterated in a flash of crimson light. While the small explosions were bursting brightly, Sabriel still could make out the music from before. Emanating from what were apparently the walls and ceilings themselves, it continued its melancholic tug of strings.

    What angered and astonished her the most, however, was the fact that their captor from before was impossibly now standing there in the midst of the shopping detritus. Clutching two bags full to the brim with items, the Man with the Hourglass Voice paid Sabriel and her fellow prisoner no mind as he strolled along the promenade. His hum joined the melody of the band as he eyed each of the shops with a customer's curiosity.

    In all of her gazing, she had nearly forgotten the other bearded man had asked her a question. "Because," she said, her eyes fixed firmly on their captor, "we can get him." Whispers were louder than Sabriel spoke now, and her lips moved as imperceptibly as they could without impeding speech.

    "Don't you see? You and I? We've made it this far. But for what?" She slowly refocused her attention completely upon her bearded compatriot. "They keep pitting us against one another, over and over, but to what end?" Focusing deeply upon this tall man, Sabriel tried to hear between the cries of the dead surrounding them. There, resting under the lifeless chatter of the deceased, she honed in on what death might cling to her supposed opponent.

    "You haven't killed like I have." She was surprised by how the words caught in her throat. She expected him to be like her, but the barren void surrounding the bearded man only hinted at death, not screamed it. Just as the goblin archer's bow had not sung with the songs of lives it had taken, this man before her was innocent of his own accord.

    Yet still here he stood, alive just as she. Her assigned purpose here was just as his. Only...

    "We don't have to fight." Fragile was this whimper, begging almost. She was pleading with herself more than anything. "They tell us we have to fight. But we don't. What if we didn't? What could they do? They couldn't force us. I doubt anyone's ever tried... How long have we even been at this?" The notion trailed off along with her sentence. Thoughts raced through her mind and were extinguished as quickly as the pods she saw outside. Her mental processes tumbled about, trying to wrap themselves around ideas she could not quite voice, fears she could not find words for.

    Death was no fear of hers, yet it was her fear for others. There was purpose past this place, a service she must return to beyond this purgatory. Sabriel could feel her calling returning to her gradually, the reason for her bells becoming as clear as their calls. She had to get back.

    But this man needed to as well. This person's life was just like the lives of those who had occupied this place before them. Every parent and child and guard now dead and dying had once had an existence, and all she could feel of those lives now was the frayed and burning ends. It was absolute loss, the painful potential of a living cut short. Hopes and dreams were wiped away here.

    "I don't want you to die." She found herself looking at her feet, and forced her chin to raise. She met her compatriot's eyes again. "And this man," she barely motioned with her head to their captor, "is right here. I've never seen one of them like that. You and I... we could do it."

    The hundred hopes of a hundred dead clung as tears to her eyes. Without any tremor, she extended a handshake to her fellow prisoner. He was unarmed, and she was young, but she knew - knew in the very depths of her still beating heart - that they both were as equally formidable. "My name is Sabriel. What's yours?"

  5. #5
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    Default Oracles of those bizarre

    Oh?

    Sunken eyes narrowed upon the weightless girl in silent judgement of her proposal. She encountered the same fate as he, then? Was he not the only victim to this bloodbath, not the only plaything to his unsympathetic master? He had not counted a tournament out of the question, but it had seemed unlikely that his--that their god toyed with anyone but the frustrated Fallen. Knowing now the specifics of their curious circumstance...well, that changed things.

    Yet his purpose remained the same; to discover his tattered past and destroy the mongrels that imprisoned him in the first place.

    And before him in the form of a cold, fragile child stood assistance in his claiming of what rightfully belonged to him. She was willing to help him destroy their arrogant master, to whom Emonalach's gaze attached to as he strolled with his shopping bags through the lavish district. Never before had he collected in such a corporeal form, a potentially fatal error in his judgement.

    Unless he intended to manifest and bring them together as one. Was that the reason for their encounter?

    Nonetheless, the Enchanter did not dismiss the proposal of the girl, known as Sabriel, as mere banter as he had with his previous opponents. The monk was idealistic and foolish; the golem, a mindless revenant. The lizard man had proved his determination by the end, but even he fell blackened and ashen to the Fallen's trouncing presence. Yet Sabriel stood tall, unintimidated and very much conscious of their predicament. Clearly his newest opponent thought before she acted, questioning not what, but why.

    Perhaps if she had fought as many encounters as the Enchanter had, she was worthy enough to fight alongside him.

    Perhaps...

    Finally the corner of Emonalach's lip twisted upward in a clever grin as his eyes returned to hers, and a charmed laugh slipped from his throat. "You're certainly correct. I may not have killed as you have, but usually my opponents end up killing themselves." He blinked slowly and exhaled, like a predator contemplating the state of his prey.

    He released the railing and drifted closer to her, disregarding her extended hand. "Call me Emonalach." His mouth lowered to her ear as he floated by, a quiet whisper emitting from between his teeth. "Hold him still for a minute, will you?"

    As the Enchanter drifted away from the girl without waiting for her response, his lips moved rapidly with a droning murmur. The creeping waves of volume undulated ominously with a near visual shudder of their universal fabric, and his aura crept higher in temperature until it was near sweltering. A small bead of sweat rolled over his brow and crawled into his eye, but his focus didn't falter.

    Your constitution must prove its worth now, Sabriel.

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    "Hold him still for a minute, will you?"

    "I will do you one better."

    Sabriel knew their alliance was tentative at best. Built entirely upon the tenuous promise of not harming one another, the slightest hint of doubt to her allegiance to Emonalach would cause him to turn on her. She knew this. She knew this in every quickened pulse of her heart, in the slow and calming breath she now inhaled, in the cold of Kibeth's handle as she drew it from its pouch.

    She would not fail him. She hoped he would not fail her.

    The coarse reckonings of death still sang around her, dammed behind the wall of her mind. The sheer volume of the dead on this ship was staggering, almost too much to bear. "It's okay," she said quietly. "It's okay." Whether as assurance to herself or as prayer to those who had passed could not be known. All that Sabriel was in this moment was a hand which rang a bell.

    It started gently, like the tousle from a mother in the morning, like the rhythmic coos of birds at dawn. The tempo steadied and grew, overcoming the band's own tune. Brightening like the fires of the fields, Sabriel recalled how Kibeth had once sang for the Hourglass Man before. She felt a wash of ease and confidence sweep over her at that.

    Marching - every marching - Kibeth's call reverberated along the corridors, extending throughout the area. It was a magical noise, a true beauty. Its tune instilled a sort of hope born of vitality.

    "He watched." She said it conversationally, consolingly. The bodies around the promenade shivered, limbs jiggling and jostling.

    "He watched you all, and let you die." To the beat of the one, two, three, four, the dead then rose to move once more.

    "He brought us here," her voice shimmered with a violence ill-contained, "so we could fight. To watch us die like you all."

    She knew they couldn't hear her, knew their soulful presence was beyond the veil of void now. Yet still Sabriel continued her speech, as Kibeth roared with its melody's advance.

    "And now, he's here himself."

    Her will was ironclad, a mental blade extending from its sheath. The ferocity of her words matched the manic pitch of her bell, and as the corpses stumbled to their feet and roused themselves from idle floating, they looked to their waker and master. There the girl with the raven hair stood, a sneer stretching out along her expression. The gaze she leveled against the Man with the Hourglass Voice was uncompromising in its hatred and intent.

    "Time for his judgement."

    Like a wave of thunder along the night's horizon, the heads of the dead turned to the supposed judge of this arena. With Sabriel's pure and guiding concentration, they launched themselves at him. Guards with their arms burnt away, shoppers with their bags still clutched in rigor, diners and guests and staff galore; all clamoring to grab hold. Any dead who could hear Kibeth's call were now making their way towards the torturous man. She could hear movement in the restaurant below, and some in other places she had not seen yet coming from above. The great lurch of motion all aimed at that serene son of a bitch who so idly strolled through the shops.

    As if the world around him did not matter. As if Sabriel's and Emonalach's lives were a pittance for sport. As if this was all just a game.

    They swarmed and surged toward the Hourglass Voiced Man, crawling and flinging through the weightless air. Descending upon him like the ocean on a rock, Sabriel kept ringing and maintained her focus of mind. However, she did allow herself to flash a cheeky smirk and a nod of her head in the direction of her now sweating ally.

    "Your turn." And she watched to see just what power Emonalach had up his sleeve.

  7. #7
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    Default Tower, Judgement, Devil, Death

    So it's the bells, then.

    The pulsing melody that rang clear and wide from Sabriel's hand was almost visual in its riposte, cracking and rumbling the bones of the recently deceased. Even the Enchanter felt the almost hypnotizing tug of its morose noise, something he probably attributed to his status as a Fallen. Yet his determination and concentration were far more durable than pewter and iron could restrain, so his clenched fist stayed by his side.

    As the legions of the dead drifted towards their newest opponent, Emonalach's chants grew not louder, but wider. They expanded in both harmony and dimension, splitting and weaving into an eldritch call of unnerving breadth. This enchantment, however, called not for the proliferation of raw power but rather complete and utter sovereignty. Flames of a feral nature could devour all in sight, including his newfound ally. In any other circumstance, Emonalach would have discard such a petty concern, but this engagement was far different. If his hellish furnace was unable to incinerate the mysterious man, then he would most certainly require Sabriel's assistance in his destruction of the master.

    Therefore, when he ravenously seized upon the apparent necromancer's perturbed and anxious heart, Emonalach immediately tamed the ember that spurted from the troubled effigy. He blew upon the flame and flared it by his preference, clasping his blanketing entity over the fire when it grew too large. Like a sculptor shaped a block of marble stone, so too did he guide the fires to fill the crevices of his mind. It roared and screamed at the concept of ensnarement, but by the chains of Emonalach's will it was smothered and silenced to mere whimpers.

    "That will do, Sabriel."

    And then, in an explosion of frightening noise, it was relinquished.

    White fires of his psychotic inferno burst from the center of his chest, collecting and elongating to construct an enormous snake-like figure. Rather than expanding in a sphere from his being, the fires retained structure and stability by Emonalach's willpower. The fiendish snake unleashed an extramundane howl before erupting towards the well-dressed man, attempting to surround him in a constrictor-like fashion. It tightened its fiery form around his limbs, trying to crush him with heat greater than lightning before snapping its jaws over his head that remained unbound.

    While the blazing serpent unleashed its wrath upon their master, Emonalach's probing presence grasped something more from Sabriel's being. Oh my, what's this? Her command over the dead spread much further than summoning them back to life, it seemed. More bells than one possessed the ability to bind those beyond humanity's reach, bells which she still had yet to touch in their unprecedented session.

    Perhaps if he could obtain such a power, the engagement could lean in their favor. Hopefully she would not notice his incorporeal probing in her concentration of control over the dead, but it also wouldn't surprise him if she did. Her mind was in constant turmoil, yet it was wise and ever-vigilant especially considering her age. Such a strife could damage what brittle trust they had established in their momentary truce, but he was willing to take the risk if it meant overthrowing their master.

    With a silent call upon Lemach, the great hero of Death, the Fallen reached ethereally for Sabriel's encompassing command. His enchantment latched upon her innate power and leeched from it every bit of knowledge he could comprehend, learning of the frightening strength she held. How fascinating it was to understand the codex of the dead as she did, even at a fraction of her knowledge. His eyes closed in momentary bliss; knowledge was indeed power.

    Only a moment longer...
    Last edited by TheDoctor; 08-27-2015 at 04:22 AM.

    Thanks to Karma for the dandiest set
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  8. #8
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    The gentleman raised an eyebrow as the dead converged on him.

    “This won't help, you know.” he said in a conversational tone as he dropped his bags, which clattered to the polished floor and spilled their contents on the ground. He crossed his arms and leaned against the glass of a store front as the horde descended on him.

    “Oh no” he yawned as the clawing hands dragged him to the floor. “However will I survive?” He did not resist, simply letting the horde batter him back and forth. “Though I do find it funny that the necromancer would seek to judge me for this. I simply brought you both here to duel in a place that you could not affect your surroundings adversely. No one survived from this liner, so you could do as you pleased.”

    As the horde crushed down on him, he fell silent, until the snake of fire burned through the dead and constricted around him, lifting him above the deck even as his impeccable suit burned.

    “And now the fallen attacks one of his betters! Obviously, I was lackadaisical in putting myself. . .”

    There was a blast of fire as the dead and the man in the suit was consumed when the head of the snake swallowed the man's head. Black bones fell to the deck and collapsed into powder, and all was still. The klaxon's still blared and the ship still groaned as it died beneath their feet.

    From the pile of blackened bones, one skeleton lurched to its feet, eyes and ribs blazing with shadowy green fire. In a horrid mockery of genteel manners, its hands clapped together with a rhythmic clack-clack-clack.

    “Oh, well done.” Came a voice of hissing vileness, boring into both the fighters brains. The green fire grew, sweeping over the bones until standing whole and complete was the man in the suit. “But what made you think I was the ultimate master of this arena? I'm more trapped than you are, at least you can earn your freedom. I am nothing more than a curator, doomed not to fight but to entertain. Yes, sloppy. I shouldn't have put myself in your reach, that was a mistake. One I will pay for, I'm sure.”

    He cracked his fingers and wiggled them experimentally.

    “And one deserving of a course penalty for you two.”

    Suddenly, he was in front of Sabriel, smiling widely. His hand lashed out and grabbed the bell Ranna. With a tinkle and a crunch, the bell folded up in his hand into an unrecognisable lump of metal. He looked to Emonalach, and with a wave of his hand was standing behind the enchanter. Words, ancient and incomprehensible, slipped into the fallens ears and he felt his power over his physical location, his ability to teleport, unravel in a spike of pain.

    “Now, you will fight. One of you will lose. And one of you will continue. Or you can lie down with the dead, and wait for the end. Your choice.”

    There was a crack of thunder, and a flash of light, and the man in the suit disappeared, leaving the two warriors alone, with the sound of his laughter echoing along the halls populated by the dead.

    Above them, the glass began to crack, and the song of the band began to falter.

    OOC : Both of you have lost one power, as a penalty for attacking the curator. The Necromancer has lost the sleeping bell Ranna, and the Enchanter has lost Adam, his ability to teleport.
    Last edited by dakkagor; 08-30-2015 at 10:16 PM. Reason: Post added

  9. #9
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    Quote Originally Posted by Juicesir View Post
    I forfeit my match.
    As per Juicesirs post above, he has forfeited his match and TheDoctor is free to continue to the next round.

  10. #10
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    Error
    Last edited by dakkagor; 09-02-2015 at 11:16 PM. Reason: Double post, please delete

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