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DeadManWalking
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 Posted: Wed May 18, 2011 6:57 pm Post subject: The Brothers Wade Gladiatorial Exhibit a.k.a. Kaleshi's Rise |
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“Come one, come all, to the Brothers Wade Gladiatorial Exhibit! Not just your typical blood and gore, this show is for your Mature Audiences! Instead of your boring men in armor duking it out in the sand, we have for you horrors and freaks from all over the lands, assembled for your entertainment! Feel the revulsion shiver down your spine! Let terror and delight mingle in your blood as monsters from across the world spill their life’s blood into the stone shards that cover the floor of our specially created arena! You have our guarantee you will not be disappointed!”
Weathered fingers rip the flyer from its place on the great board placed in the central square of the city of Menaster. Around the two figures reading, the city, a great mix of wood and stone and thatch, of men and elves and other races, buzzes, as tens of thousands of people go along with their lives. Few notice the two, dressed in robes of white. A symbol, faded, is woven into the fabric of their robes twice, once behind and once on the hood. No one pays the symbol much notice, for pilgrims of all religions abound in the bastard city of Menaster. The only to pay them any attention at all, are a few pickpockets, scattered in the crowd, their interests piqued by a band of gold wrapped around the bicep of the man on the right.
The figure on the left looks up to the stone structure to one side of the square, a crude drawing of which is sketched on the flyer. A young voice, full of fire and anger. “This is… This is blasphemy! This monstrosity, this slaughterhouse, is built on sacred ground. The Church of Kaleshi was torn down by barbarians and heretics for this?” He dissolves into incoherent spluttering.
The golden arm says nothing until his younger compatriot falls silent. His voice when he speaks is, at this time, much more contemplative, quiet but full of authority, iron sheathed in velvet. “Patience. We knew the Church had been torn down, and that some unbeliever would deign to build on that site. This situation is only what we had anticipated.” He reads the flyer again, eyes lingering on a single phrase. “ ‘Spill their life’s blood,’ eh? Perhaps better than we anticipated. Kaleshi may rise again. As She wills, of course.”
The younger man looks up with fanatical fire in his eyes. “May the world be swept with her cleansing flame, and may its people be judged under her sword.”
A young pickpocket chooses, quite poorly, that moment to explore the possibilities within the purse of the man with the golden band. He finds his fingers caught in a crushing grip, and he looks up to find himself speared by a calm golden gaze. Words of mercy bubble from his lips, and, artfully, in his struggles, he throws his shaggy hair back to reveal a giant mottled bruise across the side of his face. It is applied weekly by a fellow pickpocket, an insurance policy against mistakes.
But no mercy clouds those yellow eyes, and genuine screams burst from the young boy’s throat as the pilgrim, quite calmly, breaks every finger on the boy’s hand, one by one. The crowd does not notice, indeed quite clearly shuffles away from the spectacle, so ignorant are they. Averted eyes and forgetful minds are often the only protection against many of Menaster’s dangers, be they legal or criminal. And the pilgrims, after a time, blend back into the sea. After all, what are they but two more wanderers in a sea of wanderers?
The criminal underbelly of Menaster would hear about the incident quite soon, and the pilgrims would find themselves almost totally ignored by the filth of society. Which was fine with them. They hunted a different breed of filth.
So for those of you who remember Sky Island, this is yet another rendition of the common theme. However, there shall be two major changes. First of all, this is, as you can kind of tell, more geared towards horror. Bring out your twisted abominations and your mad monstrosities, for the Brothers Wade would love to have you in their arena.
Secondly, I'm going to try to integrate characters submitted more closely with the plotline of the overarching story. Thus, authors who repeatedly win may find themselves drafted to do interstitials, where their characters flesh out the world and the story additionally (which is not to say I won't be writing interstitials of my own). Authors whose characters have been defeated but not killed, or authors who have some kind of manager type whose characters have been killed, but much beloved may also be drafted.
Also, kind of a third subtopic (less of an actual change, really) the fights will be in a tournament bracket (randomly started)
For those of you who are new to this concept, what happens is that two authors, with characters chosen, write two versions of how a fight plays out. To keep the authors anonymous, I will be posting both versions. Then, our revered audience will vote on which fight they like better, and whichever one that may be becomes canon.
Entrance fees will be, say, 10 fables, and the reward will depend on how many people are interested (Currently, it seems like it'll be 1000 fables.)
Questions and comments are welcomed, as always.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
Last edited by DeadManWalking on Fri May 20, 2011 11:16 pm; edited 2 times in total
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BlackAmaranth
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| Posted: Wed May 18, 2011 8:23 pm Post subject: |
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Promised I'd take a look at any new competitions, so here we go. I'll give it a shot 
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"Well, here I am...in the towers of an insane asylum...wearing a straitjacket...talking to myself..."
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Phantomfan
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| Posted: Wed May 18, 2011 8:45 pm Post subject: |
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Oh dude count me in!
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I've been pulled back from oblivion to lurk about the City once more. Though the music of the night always beckons...
Here's some stuff I started writing a long time ago. Orb. Nexus.
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D-Lotus
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| Posted: Wed May 18, 2011 10:20 pm Post subject: |
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How much are we required to write in our battle scenes? Would two or three paragraphs suffice, or is it more of a whole chapter thing?
Btw, love the word "bastard" in this line:
| Quote: | | No one pays the symbol much notice, for pilgrims of all religions abound in the bastard city of Menaster. |
_________________
 Chapter 5: The Rendezvous 
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Thunderbird
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sat May 21, 2011 11:22 am Post subject: |
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Theoretically, any length will do. I have almost no restrictions on the format of the battles themselves. But previous experience has told me that longer fights tend to do better in the voter's eyes.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sat May 21, 2011 1:06 pm Post subject: |
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Ooh, btw, I should have mentioned this earlier. Anyone interested in the competition will be writing a bio for their character that they need to submit to me. This bio is given to your opponent so that they can write your character properly. Remember, the more details you put in a bio, the less likely it is someone will write your character in a way you dislike.
Also, if you wish, you may write an introductory fight/brief history to be displayed in this thread before the competition starts. It's more work, but it helps to give readers and authors an idea of the voice of your character, as well as allowing you to garner interest for your character beforehand.
Deadlines on the above will be probably based on whenever I can get enough people into this.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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Tainted Biohazard
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| Posted: Sun May 22, 2011 1:17 pm Post subject: |
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| I will get such next weekend to you. I am interested in participation in your tournament. Monsters. How can I resist?
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Thunderbird
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Tue May 24, 2011 9:29 pm Post subject: |
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For those of you who crave structure, here's a brief list of things that are absolutely necessary for your character bios (which will be seen only by me and your opponents, so no need to use fanciful prose.)
-Name (Self-explanatory)
-Description (Physical description; What do people see when they look at him/her?)
-Personality (How does he/she act? What quirks does he/she have? Does he like watching ducks swim? Does she eat people? And why?
-Abilities (What are her special abilities? What are his normal ones? List any you think apply, as well as limitations.
-History (How did this person come to be this person? What major events happened in his life that made her who it is today?)
-Motivation (Kind of a subset of History. Why is it in the tournament? Glory? Money? Boredom? Or something more complex?)
-Credentials (Also a subset of History. Why are the Brothers Wade letting this contestant in the tournament? Are they a renowned gladiator? A mass murderer on loan from the city jail? Or just so obviously a monster that the Brothers Wade were forced to let them in?)
Be advised, the more specific you are, especially about strengths and weaknesses, the better an opposing author will make your character look. You don't want someone ignoring the obvious strengths you designed, or making up their own weaknesses for your hard-crafted contestant.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Wed Jun 01, 2011 5:44 pm Post subject: |
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And we have our first written introduction!
Kyoric the Ancient
The horn sounded to summon the gladiators to their posts, and the Kyoric the Ancient prepared to be underwhelmed. Two weeks since the last fight, and the contract he’d signed had said an interesting fight at least once every two weeks. It was obvious that Kaleb hadn’t been able to find anyone after what he’d done to the last challenger. Yet as he strode through the halls of the old Taranthian Arena, he felt a quickening in this blood, a stirring of hope. Perhaps they had found someone interesting, at the last second. Perhaps his boredom could be pushed back a couple hours.
He was very nearly disappointed when he entered the light of the blinding sun, the gaze of the whispering crowd. At the other end of the arena stood a single man, clutching a sword in a shaky stance. Just one man?
But of course, to set just one man against the Ancient meant that the man had to be someone interesting. Or something interesting. He strode forward cautiously, watching the man lest he miss something.
But then something quite disappointing occurred. Even as he walked forward, three more men emerged, one in front and two behind. Four men? Obviously nothing special. Kaleb probably had delusions that the four would work as a team, but they seemed to be just your ordinary slave gladiator, trained to fight one on one against other ordinary slave gladiators.
None would be prepared in the least for Kyoric the Ancient.
He stopped, in the middle of the crowd’s gaze, as four men circled warily, swords and spears at the ready. The Ancient was patient. He was, after all, Ancient for a reason. The one in front, the man who had been bait, broke first. He charged, yelling, and as if a flip had been switched, the other men all charged as well.
Kyoric waited. And waited. And, at the last second, before their weapons touched his decayed flesh, he waited some more.
The two spears impaled him neatly, nearly stabbing swordsmen on his opposite side. The bait’s sword was sunk deep into where shoulder meets neck, and another sword was stuck beneath his ribs. The Ancient remained still. The only thing of his skeletal form that moved where his eyes, bright and black among decaying shreds of flesh. No blood oozed from his wounds. No sound came from the arena, but the panting of men awaiting death's first move.
Again, the bait was the first to break. Leaving his weapon, he backed away, faster and faster. Scrambling backwards, he slipped on sand, scrabbled against the floor of the arena like a crab.
He would be the first to die. Kyoric strode after him, selected a spear. The sand served its purpose, drank the blood of the coward who ran. Then the Ancient turned towards the others. Two others remained where he had been, their faces slack with fear. But one of the spearmen was shaking the gate barring the entrance to the arena. Kyoric withdrew the other spear, threw it. It went nearly through the man, whose blood spilled onto the stone floor of the corridor. One of the men frozen with fear collapsed to his knees. Death came for him next. A sword in a bony hand swung across, and his head hit the arena floor.
Pitiful.
But then, surprise. The last man, boldened by fear or despair or helplessness grabbed the sword embedded in the Ancient’s chest, placed a foot against rags and bones and grey rotting flesh and pulled, stumbling backwards in the sand. Then, he settled into a two-handed stance. Even with both hands to steady it, the sword shook.
Kyroic attacked. Centuries of battle experience went into the next minute of battle, as the swordsman was driven back around the arena, past the bait spitted in the sand, past the headless corpse, past the man dying at the gate. Then, with a flurry of blows, the swordsman lost his sword, watched it spin away into the sand. He drew himself up, in his last moments, and saw his death already upon him. He awaited it with closed eyes.
He felt a thump at his feet, and then the creaking of a gate opening, and he opened his eyes to find the Ancient’s sword at his feet, and the shadow of death gone.
***
Kaleb trembled in his chair. Across from hit, a corpse sat upright, deathly still, the only sign of life the black pools of its eyes.
Its jaw creaked open.
“We had a deal.” The voice was like the rustling of ancient parchment. It did not sound amused.
Kaleb pleaded. The difficulties of finding a new interesting fighter every two weeks. Perhaps Kyoric himself needed no pay, but novelties weren’t cheap. Excuses and explanations. Kaleb was not confidant he would live through the next five minutes.
He need not have worried. The Ancient had lost interest already. In the midst of Kaleb’s frantic babbling, he merely got up and walked out. He did not return to his spartan cell. He had no possessions he cared about. He walked straight out of the arena, walked through the city.
Even in the diverse crowds of Menaster, Kyoric the Ancient drew notice. Walking corpses are not exactly rare anywhere. He was given a wide berth as he strode through the central square. The only men who dared to look at him were two pilgrims, in white. One of them moved forwards to him, confrontationally, but the other, a golden band around his arm, stopped him with a whispered word.
He moved aimlessly, listlessly, until a flyer caught his eye. He examined it, grinned skeletally, then set off with new purpose. The two pilgrims moved forward as he departed, stopping to read the flyer he left behind him.
We only have three bios in so far, folks! For a tournament, we're going to need a couple more than that.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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Thunderbird
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Tainted Biohazard
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| Posted: Wed Jun 01, 2011 11:18 pm Post subject: |
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| Looking forward to more joining so we can get this tournament started. I have sent in my character profile. Did you get it Dead Man?
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Thu Jun 09, 2011 4:22 pm Post subject: |
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It has been gotten. We currently have five profiles in. I'm looking for eight, though six will be good enough.
Speaking of things sent to me, here's another intro.
Ezekiel Vondrick and Priscilla
For a moment, there is silence.
The mother cannot speak, no words even forming in her numb brain. Her husband stands before her, hope mingled with apprehension behind his eyes. But there is something darker behind that, a look she can’t name shimmering like a sunken well in the dead of night. And here he is, presenting her with this…abomination, almost as if he’s proud of it. He swallows and repeats the question.
“What do you think, dearest?” The mother is too shocked to even cry. The thing stares up at her, its eyes two wells of deepest blue. Her husband places his hand firmly on its lace-clad shoulder. “She’s…beautiful, right?” he says, his voice wavering, “I made sure she looked just like her.” He blinks back tears. The little thing looks at the mother for a moment longer. Then it opens its stitched mouth and speaks.
“Mama?” It says hopefully. Its voice is high and clear, like a songbird. Exactly like Priscilla’s. Exactly like her little girl’s.
That’s all it takes to break the spell. The mother’s breath whooshes in with a shudder, almost a sob. She finds her voice, fixing her husband with a horrified stare.
“Edwin,” she breathes, the horror in her heart reaching a crescendo as the truth sinks in, “what have you done?” Edwin gives her a smile that shatters her heart into a million tiny pieces, and grips the thing’s shoulder tighter, as if he will never again let it go.
“I brought her back.” He says simply. He takes a step closer to her, and she resists the urge to back away. “Norah…I brought our daughter back to us.” It’s only then that she recognizes the look behind his eyes. It had perhaps been there all along.
The look of desperation. The look of a father suffering from the loss of a child. The look of a madman. Something in Norah’s brain snaps, and the tears begin to roll down her cheeks.
“No,” she sobs, bringing her hand to her mouth as if to stop the flood of agony threatening to burst from her. “No, that’s…you can’t be…” She turns away from them both, collapsing into the mantelpiece behind her.
“Darling, I know it’s a lot to take in, “He says pleadingly, “but our daughter—“
“Our daughter is dead!” Norah screeches, whipping around to face him. “She died a year ago! The monster that did it is long since hanged!”
“And we’re just supposed to leave it at that?” Edwin sobs, his voice breaking, “How could I just stand by and let her rot in the ground when I knew I could do something about it?”
“So, what, you just…dug our daughter out of her grave? You couldn’t just let her rest in peace? How could you, Edwin!” Her horror immediately gives way to outrage and disgust. Edwin’s sobbing stops for a split second, and he looks down shamefully at the creature. Its eyes are welling up with something between concern and fear.
“No,” he says quietly, his voice catching again, “her body couldn’t be salvaged at that point. So…I…” He looks up at Norah pleadingly. He doesn’t need to say it. The answer slowly dawns on her.
“The children,” she breathes, “those little girls who have gone missing…” Her expression reaches a new level of repulsion. “Edwin…you didn’t.” Edwin swallows.
“I was only thinking of her.” He says, nearly breaking down entirely. “And…I made her so that she can defend herself. Don’t you see, Norah? We’ll never have to lose her again.” That was all it took. All of Norah’s agony exploded out of her.
“How could you?!” she screams. “How could you do something so disgusting, so despicable?! You MONSTER!” She picks up a vase resting on the mantelpiece and hurls it with all her might, needing something, anything to take out her rage on. The vase shatters against the wall, making an earsplitting crash. The creature whimpers with fear. It draws closer to Norah.
“It’s okay, Mama,” it says pleadingly, holding its arms out as if to calm her.
“I am not your mother!” Norah yells. Without thinking, without even meaning to, she strikes it hard across its face. The creature falls to the ground, giving a high-pitched yelp of pain.
“No!” Edwin hollers, running to stop his wife. From the ground the creature is breathing heavily. It shudders, its back heaving. “It’s alright, Priscilla,” he pleads, holding his arms in front of Norah as if to protect her. Slowly, very slowly, the creature stands, still facing away from the couple. Then it turns its head.
“It’s alright, Priscilla,” Edwin repeats, now clutching his wife desperately, “she didn’t mean…no…no, please, Priscilla, don’t--!”
The screams, male and female, ring though the house, and then there is silence again.
~
Gods damn this weather.
I stood in front of the huge dark house, the heavy raindrops beating down on my head. The dreary fog made it impossible to see anything more than three feet in front of me. Not the best conditions to perform a burglary under, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. And in this case, I was most definitely a beggar.
“Xander, you sadistic ass.” I muttered under my breath. I’m not one for sentiments, but the couple who lived there had lost a daughter, for crying out loud. And here he was, sending me to rob them blind in the middle of the night, as if that weren’t enough. I had half a mind to…I shook my head. No Zeke, I told myself, you’re not going to do anything to Xander. Wouldn’t want him to raise the debt, now would we? With a sigh, I trudged over to the side of the house. This was really no way to make a living.
With a bit of difficulty, I found the loose window I’d seen earlier that day while casing the place, about a foot above my head. I carefully reached up and pushed it open, wincing as it gives an audible squeak. I had to be careful; the couple hadn’t been seen for weeks. No telling whether they were actually home or not. I pulled myself up to the window and crawled through, dropping to the carpeted floor floor without a sound. The noise of the rain outside was abruptly cut off as I pulled the window shut behind me. Apart from the dim light coming from the window, the living room was nearly pitch-black. But that’s not a problem for my eyes; if there was anything my line of work had taught me, it was how to find your way around in the dark. Now, where to…?
I stopped dead as a horrible smell reached my nose. It crashed over me like a wave, and I physically gagged and clamped my hand over my nostrils. What the hell? I inched away from the window, my damned curiosity getting the better of me. For what felt like forever, I shuffled quietly through the dark, trying to find the source. My brain screamed at me to just forget the whole thing and get the hell out, but my feet just kept moving. I knew that smell; it was the smell that had plagued me for many years now, the smell that clung to the furniture after they carted Mother off to be tossed into the ground. The smell of…death…
There were two dark lumps on the carpeted floor in front of the mantelpiece, lumps that took me a second to recognize as bodies. I gave a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, my heart leaping into my throat. I mean, I had seen dead bodies before, but nothing like…this. This could only have been the couple, or what was left of them. As my eyes adjusted, I realized they weren’t in one piece; there were a few severed limbs scattered across the carpet, crusted with dried blood. The stench emanating from the corpses was almost enough to make me puke.
Okay, screw this job. I was gonna get out of there as fast as my legs could take me. I would just have to think of something of tell Xander. I could just tell him the—
A voice broke through the darkness, nearly making me piss myself.
“Papa?” it said meekly. I jerk my gaze away from the bodies, my heart pounding like a damn war drum. There was what looked like a little girl, huddled up in the far corner of the room. I had walked right by her and didn’t even notice. She stood up and slowly walked towards me, a dimly detailed shape in the shadows. She wobbled a little as she walked, like she wasn’t quite used to using her legs. She passed in front of the window and just stood there, looking up at me expectantly.
“Is that you, Papa?” she said, her voice like a songbird. For a second I didn’t answer. My head was swimming with questions. So I asked the first one that came to mind.
“What—what happened here?” I blurted out. The girl looked over at the bodies, more with vague confusion than the shock still coursing through my body.
“I don’t remember.” She said simply. “But we should get out of here. It smells funny.” She sidled up to me, holding out her hand. “Are you coming, Papa?” Even in the darkness, I could see her bright smile.
I’m not proud of what I did next. Looking back, I don’t regret it. But at the time it was the dumbest thing I could have done. Still, I couldn’t just leave her there.
I swallowed and forced a smile, the odor of death still burning my nostrils.
“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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Thunderbird
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| Posted: Thu Jun 09, 2011 8:00 pm Post subject: |
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whew... I'm gonna need to step up my game apparently... jeez that was well done! Very cool intro (and character - gets the sympathy vote... lol... a tough opponent I see ahead.)
_________________
     
 CHAPTER 25: Near-Light Speed (NEW CHAPTER! (12/4/2011))
Zephyrrr! And...  
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Tainted Biohazard
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| Posted: Sat Jun 11, 2011 1:22 pm Post subject: |
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| This was very good. Perhaps I should write an introduction as well. I did not realize this was something I should do but now that I see what has been done, I will give it a go.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Jun 12, 2011 11:21 pm Post subject: |
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And another intro! @TB, anything you wish to write for this would be welcome.
Janis
“It’s time.”
The words echoed through the small chamber, causing the six men to pause in their preparations to look up at the speaker. A tall, cloaked figure standing in the hall motioned towards a large door, and the men stood silently. The door slowly swung open on creaky hinges, bright sunlight flooding through the small dark passageway, accompanied by the screams and cheers of a large crowd. The men stepped out into the wide arena, grinning and raising their swords to acknowledge the crowd’s excitement.
On the other side of the arena, embedded into the stone wall, stood a gate of metal spikes laced together. As the men watched, it slowly began to rise, revealing a dark hole. The crowd, before so exuberant and excited, began to jeer and hiss as a woman stepped out from the shadows into the sun’s blazing light.
She didn’t look like much of a fighter, the men could see that immediately. Her clothes seemed too regal to be dragged along in the dust, and her hair was too long to be that of a warrior. But what really caught the men’s attention was the symbol imprinted on her forehead. A few shifted uneasily at the sight, and others gripped their weapons tightly, each recalling the stories they had heard about this woman. But there were six of them this time, and each was a heavily trained and experienced fighter. What chance could a single, unarmed woman have?
Quickly and efficiently, the men spread out, forming a semi-circle that partly surrounded the woman. She merely watched, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards slightly, but made no move to attack.
They waited. Minutes passed, the sun’s harsh rays beating down upon the silent crowd and the still dust- until finally the woman moved. Slowly, calmly, she raised her arms, crossing them in front of her chest, the back of her hands pressed against one another. Light glinted off two silver rings on her hands, each with a small curved blade protruding from the silver bands. She paused in that position, ebony eyes glazing over as the symbol on her forehead began to glow with a red light. The warriors hesitated, unsure of how to react- only to jump as she suddenly pulled her arms apart, the bladed rings slicing open the back of her wrists in one swift motion. As the disconcerted men watched, blood began to leak from the wounds, but strangely. Rather then dripping off her hand, the liquid hardened, sharpening and extending until two dark blades protruded from her wrists.
Before the men could register what had just happened, the woman had leapt forwards, bringing her arms down in a mighty slash. There was a pause, frozen silence resounding throughout the stadium. One of the men looked down at his chest in disbelief, where a thin line of blood stretched from his shoulder to his waist. The woman straightened, taking a step forwards as the top half of the man’s body separated itself from lower half. Gravity took hold, and both halves fell to the ground in a burst of blood.
The woman continued walking towards the group of men, most of whom took a step back. Two, braver then the others, broke off from the rest of the group and ran towards the woman from opposite sides. She paused, blades at the ready to slash these two in half- a move that was no longer unexpected. As the two blood blades fell,
Two steel swords were there to meet their descent, moving upwards with an impressively strong force. The woman’s blades splintered, shards of blood liquefying and showering over the men. Without pause, the men jumped forwards, ready to strike again- only to falter as the woman raised her hands. The blood rose from the men’s shoulders and crept instead to their necks, the drops spreading and connecting to one another, forming circlets around each man’s neck- circlets that were, in fact, smaller then their neck was round. Weapons forgotten, the men’s hands flew up to these hoops, pulling and scratching wildly, trying to pry them from their skin as their eyes bulged. The woman stepped between the two struggling men, not even glancing towards them, and closed her open fists. The bands of blood suddenly constricted, cutting through flesh and bone until there was nothing left to cut. With a dull thud, the two heads hit the ground, followed quickly by the newly headless bodies. Calmly, the woman stepped over the newly headless bodies, her skirt dragging through the pools of fresh blood.
The terrified men watched as one of her broken blades began shrinking, retracting into her arm, as the other began growing, stretching and sharpening until it extended a full three feet from her wrist. A quick leap and a jab, and one of the three was dangling off the point of her lance, pierced through the heart. One of the two remaining swung his sword wildly, hitting the center of her lance and breaking it cleanly in half. Before he could raise his arm for a second strike, the woman had brought the rod of solidified blood down upon his head, bashing his skull in.
As his body crumpled, the woman turned to the remaining man and looked at them, as if she was daring him to try something. But no. His last nerve had been shattered at the sight of his friend’s skull being caved in, and he dropped his weapon and ran as fast as he could towards the opening. In a resigned motion, the woman stroked the lance protruding from her wrist, slitting open her palm along its sharp edge, and flung the drops of blood at the man. As the dark drops sped through the air, they congealed and sharpened, forming two small spikes that slammed into the man’s chest, piercing each lung with deadly accuracy. The man collapsed, writhing in pain, his chest heaving as he tried to draw air into his torn lungs.
The woman watched his struggles, eyes shining. She twitched a finger, and deep within the man’s body, the spikes of blood liquefied, mixing with the man’s own. It sped through the veins, following the path of least resistance as his body tried to preserve he most vital organs, flowing up and around and back until finally- it reached the brain.
She closed her open fist.
The man’s head exploded in a mass of spikes, showering the ground with brain matter and blood. That which fell on the woman was absorbed, leaving no stain on her pale skin.
There was a brief moment of silence, only to be shattered as the air filled with boos and hisses from the crowd. It had been three years since they had seen this blood sorceress beaten, and they wanted her gone. Screams and jeers echoed through the stadium.
The woman looked at the surrounding bodies, the light from her forehead fading away to nothing. She took a deep breath, the scent of freshly spilled blood filling her lungs, eyes suddenly sad as they gazed upon the carnage around her.
“Well done, Janis.” A voice murmured within her head, sounding amused.
“It’s not enough,” She whispered, her voice inaudible over the crowd’s insults. “Not yet.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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Thunderbird
Elder
Joined: 13 Sep 2009
Topics: 104
Posts: 2139
Location: Rising from the ashes
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