Spoiler (click to show/hide):
As both of you would see, the circular arena -- of dusty beige sand flooring, just loose enough that it might be kicked up when moving -- is a plain battleground that does not tell of the many bloodbaths it has faced in the past, save for the scratches and scorch marks across the impenetrable 20-foot walls of thickly-cut beige stone ringing the large pit. No obstructions could be seen in the arena floor, save for a few knuckle-sized rocks buried into the sand. This battleground was as fair as it could get, realistically speaking, though the constant jeering and cheering of the crowd above was difficult to dismiss.
Razajin, as predicted, was met with a chorus of applause -- but also scrutiny, especially from some more prideful demons who'd rather be in the arena instead of him -- and even a small downpour of favors from the crowd, his pulse of shadow magic effectively helping the crowd's lethal opinion of him. A few loose flowers, kerchiefs and even a pair of girls' underwear were tossed from the highest seats, only to incinerate into ash as it passed the invisible barrier of magic that shielded the crowd from the combatants, and vice versa.
Jered, conversely, was met with mostly displeasure and the expected booing but the noble court in the luxurious seats at the upper lip of the walls remained tacit, instead stroking their chins and gossiping over how strong he might actually be. He was a person of interest, after all, and though Razajin might have been representing the might of the demons in this arena, they knew Jered must have been particularly quick-witted, intelligent and fortuitous to have even entered this arena alive, dispute the circumstances.
They would be instructed to stand at the center of the arena facing each other head on, the customary twelve feet apart.
In his skybox above, the Margrave stood, looking over the crowd one last time before his head tilted to the arena below and he spoke:
"Combatants, draw your weapons..." the demon clasped his hands together neatly.
"...and fight!"
The piercing bang of a gunshot filled the arena, signalling the beginning of the battle!
Jered HP - 450/450
Razajin HP - 400/400
As both of you would see, the circular arena -- of dusty beige sand flooring, just loose enough that it might be kicked up when moving -- is a plain battleground that does not tell of the many bloodbaths it has faced in the past, save for the scratches and scorch marks across the impenetrable 20-foot walls of thickly-cut beige stone ringing the large pit. No obstructions could be seen in the arena floor, save for a few knuckle-sized rocks buried into the sand. This battleground was as fair as it could get, realistically speaking, though the constant jeering and cheering of the crowd above was difficult to dismiss.
Razajin, as predicted, was met with a chorus of applause -- but also scrutiny, especially from some more prideful demons who'd rather be in the arena instead of him -- and even a small downpour of favors from the crowd, his pulse of shadow magic effectively helping the crowd's lethal opinion of him. A few loose flowers, kerchiefs and even a pair of girls' underwear were tossed from the highest seats, only to incinerate into ash as it passed the invisible barrier of magic that shielded the crowd from the combatants, and vice versa.
Jered, conversely, was met with mostly displeasure and the expected booing but the noble court in the luxurious seats at the upper lip of the walls remained tacit, instead stroking their chins and gossiping over how strong he might actually be. He was a person of interest, after all, and though Razajin might have been representing the might of the demons in this arena, they knew Jered must have been particularly quick-witted, intelligent and fortuitous to have even entered this arena alive, dispute the circumstances.
They would be instructed to stand at the center of the arena facing each other head on, the customary twelve feet apart.
In his skybox above, the Margrave stood, looking over the crowd one last time before his head tilted to the arena below and he spoke:
"Combatants, draw your weapons..." the demon clasped his hands together neatly.
"...and fight!"
The piercing bang of a gunshot filled the arena, signalling the beginning of the battle!
Jered HP - 450/450
Razajin HP - 400/400
Vivienne -
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
Cier scratched a hand against the fine, laminate wood table that sat before them. It was not more than a few minutes after they'd first arrived that Xierante had arranged for a symphony of food to be prepared on the table, just as it was for the court of nobles who sat below. Despite there only being three guests, the food -- delivered on silver plates by purple-dressed servants -- was lavish and numerous, prepared by ace chefs in the castle's kitchens and garnished in the same way as a banquet. Pork, steak, turkey, chicken, vegetables, trays of fruits, liquor, wine, fruit juice... the list went on, all set temptingly before Vivienne, under her nose. Plates and silver utensils were provided so that one might serve themselves.
Cier was reluctant to pick at the food, though...
Eh, nothing. It's just the noise. Fights are cool and stuff, but... the wolf demon managed to break a small grin, pointing to his ears, It's like fifty dragons roaring in my face right now.
He served himself a small plate of barbequed meats and a glass of fruit juice (diligently avoiding the liquor and drugs also provided) before speaking up again.
They're not dueling to the death, though. The nobles like drama and stuff, so dad's always told the fighters to not kill each other so they build like... like a rivalry. It makes them fight harder, and people love it. They cut off their own arms to get seats to watch the fights. I saw an ogre do it once. he smiled a bit. Nearby, Xierante was whispering over his shoulder to an attendant who stood nearby, but his words were so masked you could not hear.
They only kill each other when the nobles want to see someone new. Like the ending to a story. But I don't think this Jered guy is any danger...dunno what will happen if he wins though. he shrugged, not really seeming to care for the thief's fate. After picking at his food for a while, he decided to return to your question from before.
Anyway, Meesa -- this mage guy I know -- told me anyone can use any type of magic, as long as their blood lets them. He said humans like you can use any type, but some other mortal races just can't, for whatever reason. He said 'all you need is training and potential'. he explained.
After a while, Xierante stood from his throne -- drawing looks of interest from the chattering crowd -- and at last gestured for the fight to begin.
"Combatants, draw your weapons..." the Margrave clasped his hands together.
"...and fight!"
Upon his words, a demon across the arena raised a simple pistol and fired it upward, the bang seeming to indicate to the start of the fight. Pleased with the crowd's uproar of applause, the Margrave looked to the combatants below to see they were about to begin before seating himself, heaving a sigh of exhaustion as he did so. He turned to you with his keen red eyes.
"Worry not. It is but a show for the people and the nobles. Personally, I would rather be playing the piano right now." he spoke clearly to some surprise, with a little smile. Taking a crystal glass of rum in hand, he turned to watch the fight in silence, seeing you and Cier were chatting. Wouldn't be any harm in asking him a question, though, if you wanted to.
Cier scratched a hand against the fine, laminate wood table that sat before them. It was not more than a few minutes after they'd first arrived that Xierante had arranged for a symphony of food to be prepared on the table, just as it was for the court of nobles who sat below. Despite there only being three guests, the food -- delivered on silver plates by purple-dressed servants -- was lavish and numerous, prepared by ace chefs in the castle's kitchens and garnished in the same way as a banquet. Pork, steak, turkey, chicken, vegetables, trays of fruits, liquor, wine, fruit juice... the list went on, all set temptingly before Vivienne, under her nose. Plates and silver utensils were provided so that one might serve themselves.
Cier was reluctant to pick at the food, though...
Eh, nothing. It's just the noise. Fights are cool and stuff, but... the wolf demon managed to break a small grin, pointing to his ears, It's like fifty dragons roaring in my face right now.
He served himself a small plate of barbequed meats and a glass of fruit juice (diligently avoiding the liquor and drugs also provided) before speaking up again.
They're not dueling to the death, though. The nobles like drama and stuff, so dad's always told the fighters to not kill each other so they build like... like a rivalry. It makes them fight harder, and people love it. They cut off their own arms to get seats to watch the fights. I saw an ogre do it once. he smiled a bit. Nearby, Xierante was whispering over his shoulder to an attendant who stood nearby, but his words were so masked you could not hear.
They only kill each other when the nobles want to see someone new. Like the ending to a story. But I don't think this Jered guy is any danger...dunno what will happen if he wins though. he shrugged, not really seeming to care for the thief's fate. After picking at his food for a while, he decided to return to your question from before.
Anyway, Meesa -- this mage guy I know -- told me anyone can use any type of magic, as long as their blood lets them. He said humans like you can use any type, but some other mortal races just can't, for whatever reason. He said 'all you need is training and potential'. he explained.
After a while, Xierante stood from his throne -- drawing looks of interest from the chattering crowd -- and at last gestured for the fight to begin.
"Combatants, draw your weapons..." the Margrave clasped his hands together.
"...and fight!"
Upon his words, a demon across the arena raised a simple pistol and fired it upward, the bang seeming to indicate to the start of the fight. Pleased with the crowd's uproar of applause, the Margrave looked to the combatants below to see they were about to begin before seating himself, heaving a sigh of exhaustion as he did so. He turned to you with his keen red eyes.
"Worry not. It is but a show for the people and the nobles. Personally, I would rather be playing the piano right now." he spoke clearly to some surprise, with a little smile. Taking a crystal glass of rum in hand, he turned to watch the fight in silence, seeing you and Cier were chatting. Wouldn't be any harm in asking him a question, though, if you wanted to.
Clife -
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
The Silverwood pulsed again. Along its thick and ancient bark, you saw fissures begin to split -- black pits from the stress of battle. The tree was mighty, but its patience for blood and chaos, given its age, seemed thin. As you made your plea, it gave another thoughtful swoon that reeked of indecisiveness, but also vengeance. An uncanny cocktail of feelings for a tree. Thus, as you issued your spell to the grass, you felt another electric feeling tingle through your limbs. Just as Lenore's rod would have come down to declare the order, the thick grass beneath shimmered and leapt at her ankles like a dog, causing her to yelp in surprise and trip forward, falling flat onto her face with an "oof" where the grass continued to pick at her, shimmering silver.
Lenore growled, managing to fumble for the katana at her side and unsheath it with a harsh grating. With a few haphazard swings, she slew most of the enchanted grass and tumbled back to her feet, her regal demeanor tumbled somewhat by the shredded grass sticking to her face and clothes.
Exploiting this moment of confusion, you had sprinted in with all haste to deliver a strike. Lenore, still dazed, would have been too slow to parry the spear, until--
With a triplet of whish noises, the nearby crossbowmens' weapons rung off, sending three iron quarrels barreling with blurring speed toward you. Being faulty shots, the first two skirted noiselessly past your person and lodged in the earth, but the third -- in some unholy miracle -- impacted the shaft of your spear, blasting a shaky vibration through your hand and compelling your still dazed mind to drop it. Lenore, seeing this hesitation, immediately redoubled her posture and swung her katana in a clean cut, left-to-right toward your body just as your weapon hit the earth at your feet. But you were not stunned, and had but a moment to counter...
Reila and Jegen meanwhile, were doing a spiffing job disposing of the other swordsmen. Reila's sword strikes, while inaccurate, were fatiguing her target and dealing some minor wounds (40 damage) while the overburdened demon couldn't manage even a single cut back. Jegen's fight, in the same vein, was rather one-sided as though he was unarmed, the rotund trader was expressing surprising lethality with quick counterattacks and dodging around the demon's weapon, save for two unlucky slashes that bloodied him (50 damage), but tore off his puffy coat's sleeves to expose some outstandingly muscled arms -- like those of an Orc's. Then, with two swift palm strikes, he pulled the demon's weapon from his hand before lifting him to the air and spun him inverted into some kind of piledriver you'd expect of a wrestler, slamming him helm-first into the earth (100 damage) and leaving it stunned.
Well, at least they were taken care of for now.
Clife HP - 180/250
Reila HP - 100/100 (suppressing Demon Swordsman A)
Jegen HP - 300/350 (suppressing Demon Swordsman B)
Artillery Captain Lenore HP - 400/400
Demon Swordsman A HP - 170/300 (suppressed by Reila)
Demon Swordsman B HP - 220/300 (suppressed by Jegen)
Demon Crossbowman A HP - 200/200 (reloading)
Demon Crossbowman B HP - 200/200 (reloading)
Demon Crossbowman C HP - 200/200 (reloading)
The Silverwood pulsed again. Along its thick and ancient bark, you saw fissures begin to split -- black pits from the stress of battle. The tree was mighty, but its patience for blood and chaos, given its age, seemed thin. As you made your plea, it gave another thoughtful swoon that reeked of indecisiveness, but also vengeance. An uncanny cocktail of feelings for a tree. Thus, as you issued your spell to the grass, you felt another electric feeling tingle through your limbs. Just as Lenore's rod would have come down to declare the order, the thick grass beneath shimmered and leapt at her ankles like a dog, causing her to yelp in surprise and trip forward, falling flat onto her face with an "oof" where the grass continued to pick at her, shimmering silver.
Lenore growled, managing to fumble for the katana at her side and unsheath it with a harsh grating. With a few haphazard swings, she slew most of the enchanted grass and tumbled back to her feet, her regal demeanor tumbled somewhat by the shredded grass sticking to her face and clothes.
Exploiting this moment of confusion, you had sprinted in with all haste to deliver a strike. Lenore, still dazed, would have been too slow to parry the spear, until--
With a triplet of whish noises, the nearby crossbowmens' weapons rung off, sending three iron quarrels barreling with blurring speed toward you. Being faulty shots, the first two skirted noiselessly past your person and lodged in the earth, but the third -- in some unholy miracle -- impacted the shaft of your spear, blasting a shaky vibration through your hand and compelling your still dazed mind to drop it. Lenore, seeing this hesitation, immediately redoubled her posture and swung her katana in a clean cut, left-to-right toward your body just as your weapon hit the earth at your feet. But you were not stunned, and had but a moment to counter...
Reila and Jegen meanwhile, were doing a spiffing job disposing of the other swordsmen. Reila's sword strikes, while inaccurate, were fatiguing her target and dealing some minor wounds (40 damage) while the overburdened demon couldn't manage even a single cut back. Jegen's fight, in the same vein, was rather one-sided as though he was unarmed, the rotund trader was expressing surprising lethality with quick counterattacks and dodging around the demon's weapon, save for two unlucky slashes that bloodied him (50 damage), but tore off his puffy coat's sleeves to expose some outstandingly muscled arms -- like those of an Orc's. Then, with two swift palm strikes, he pulled the demon's weapon from his hand before lifting him to the air and spun him inverted into some kind of piledriver you'd expect of a wrestler, slamming him helm-first into the earth (100 damage) and leaving it stunned.
Well, at least they were taken care of for now.
Clife HP - 180/250
Reila HP - 100/100 (suppressing Demon Swordsman A)
Jegen HP - 300/350 (suppressing Demon Swordsman B)
Artillery Captain Lenore HP - 400/400
Demon Swordsman A HP - 170/300 (suppressed by Reila)
Demon Swordsman B HP - 220/300 (suppressed by Jegen)
Demon Crossbowman A HP - 200/200 (reloading)
Demon Crossbowman B HP - 200/200 (reloading)
Demon Crossbowman C HP - 200/200 (reloading)
Sortaix -
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
"Nnh." moaned Marquette as you pulled her close into you. She kept herself as well as any man would have desired: her skin was soft, sensual, and her body was firm and warm. She let her hands run over your body, giving an amused little squeak as you massaged her ass. You could not imagine any coming objections from her... she seemed rather into it, what with her deep and magnetic eyes and her tempting dress. Returning your kiss, she ran her hands around your crotch further, pressing close to you as you two fell further toward the collection of furniture toward the corner. Nearly tripping as she began to shove you with ever more force, Marquette broke the kiss suddenly, her hot breath huffing down on your neck.
"You know... I can see your spirit has some light in it. But it'll be gone... soon enough." she grinned. Whether you wanted to take that as a warning or not was up to you, but Marquette was quick to intercept a reply by gently pushing you up against a nearby rock wall, pressing up against you with one hand on your chest and the other neatly unzipping your pants. She looked up at you with a warm smile as she massaged you through your underwear.
"Hey... just relax." she suggested, her hand noting your suddenly quickening heartbeat.
"Nnh." moaned Marquette as you pulled her close into you. She kept herself as well as any man would have desired: her skin was soft, sensual, and her body was firm and warm. She let her hands run over your body, giving an amused little squeak as you massaged her ass. You could not imagine any coming objections from her... she seemed rather into it, what with her deep and magnetic eyes and her tempting dress. Returning your kiss, she ran her hands around your crotch further, pressing close to you as you two fell further toward the collection of furniture toward the corner. Nearly tripping as she began to shove you with ever more force, Marquette broke the kiss suddenly, her hot breath huffing down on your neck.
"You know... I can see your spirit has some light in it. But it'll be gone... soon enough." she grinned. Whether you wanted to take that as a warning or not was up to you, but Marquette was quick to intercept a reply by gently pushing you up against a nearby rock wall, pressing up against you with one hand on your chest and the other neatly unzipping your pants. She looked up at you with a warm smile as she massaged you through your underwear.
"Hey... just relax." she suggested, her hand noting your suddenly quickening heartbeat.
Flim + Flam -
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
"Meep... uhm, kay." the newly-dressed Talkea agreed timidly, her cheeks reddening further under your compliment. She gave a blink of surprise as she was hoisted onto the wagon, seeming a little reluctant to hold the bottle of Z.Z. after a first-hand experience with its properties on... well, anything. People. Dragons. But she gave her best smile, suddenly seeming compelled to correct her posture and look a bit more jubilant under the eyes of the people that had quickly begun to gather.
If Talkea's garb wasn't enough to draw wandering eyes, your rhythmic tune certainly was. Those who hadn't yet assembled in the encampment's center (flanking your wagon from each side) were now scuttling from their houses to do so, curiosity drawn on their faces. The boys, in particular, were keen on getting close, tapping a foot to the rhythm but also peeking their heads up to try and look up Talkea's skirt. She tried to ignore them. Many smiles were seen as your short little song went on.
As you may have expected, the rather depressing encampment -- filled with orphans and widows, not to mention wounded fighters -- took some joy in your enthusiasm, and caught on with great interest. All eyes were fixed on you by the time you finished.
Under the pressure of his more muscular friends, the first to step forward was an adolescent male youth. Lithely-built, maybe a little feminine with loosely-dressed brown hair, green eyes and superior clothing, he mimicked what his friends had instructed him to say as he spoke up:
"So, umm... what do you sell? Like a drink?" he blinked, rubbing the back of his neck before his eyes wandered a bit back to Talkea.
"Meep... uhm, kay." the newly-dressed Talkea agreed timidly, her cheeks reddening further under your compliment. She gave a blink of surprise as she was hoisted onto the wagon, seeming a little reluctant to hold the bottle of Z.Z. after a first-hand experience with its properties on... well, anything. People. Dragons. But she gave her best smile, suddenly seeming compelled to correct her posture and look a bit more jubilant under the eyes of the people that had quickly begun to gather.
If Talkea's garb wasn't enough to draw wandering eyes, your rhythmic tune certainly was. Those who hadn't yet assembled in the encampment's center (flanking your wagon from each side) were now scuttling from their houses to do so, curiosity drawn on their faces. The boys, in particular, were keen on getting close, tapping a foot to the rhythm but also peeking their heads up to try and look up Talkea's skirt. She tried to ignore them. Many smiles were seen as your short little song went on.
As you may have expected, the rather depressing encampment -- filled with orphans and widows, not to mention wounded fighters -- took some joy in your enthusiasm, and caught on with great interest. All eyes were fixed on you by the time you finished.
Under the pressure of his more muscular friends, the first to step forward was an adolescent male youth. Lithely-built, maybe a little feminine with loosely-dressed brown hair, green eyes and superior clothing, he mimicked what his friends had instructed him to say as he spoke up:
"So, umm... what do you sell? Like a drink?" he blinked, rubbing the back of his neck before his eyes wandered a bit back to Talkea.
