In what will probably much to Acanthus' delight, I've finished the backstory. So here we go, onto the turn proper! Also, its either a complete coincidence or you live in a similar timezone to me, since we seem to be online at the same time quite often. I also have a funny feeling Strife never gave me a turn. And bout 8.05pm here, Acanthus.
Turns Complete: 6/6 Extras: 1/1Sanctuary Day 5, Battle!
Thom:
Fun as killing criminals was, he had bigger fish to fry. Exiles just didn't have enough cash for his tastes. Luckily, today was the Arena. Time to put his talents to the test, and hopefully earn some money while he was at it.
After another excruciating 'lesson' by his Master, Thom headed off to the Arena, though not before spending his cash on booze and some snacks. He had time before the battles started, anyway.
Much to his consternation, his opponent was a Feral. Not exactly ideal for him, but he was still confident. Drawing his slasher, he prepared to fight, waiting for the signal. And there it was, and he spun the slasher, deflecting the Feral's first attack even as he began to concentrate as he'd been taught. The shadows around his feet, bolstered by the strong sun, began to boil, before suddenly taking shape and lunging at the Feral!
Suddenly tired, Thom stopped, watching his Shadeling as it did his work for him. Or at least, that was the plan. What actually happened was the Feral casually tore it limb from limb, not even blinking as he sprayed the arena grounds with corrosive acid.
"You hope to beat me with a shadow? Ha!"
Surprise quickly turned into panic as the Feral lunged again, and although he tried to parry the blows he was no fighter, and the slasher was quickly knocked from his grasp.
"Shit shit shit shit SHI-"
Acanthus swore to himself as claws raked across his back, scoring rents in his flesh. The anger, however, soon gave way to pain, and his vision blurred as droplets of his own blood fell to the ground, soaking into the sand. This wasn't how it should be, his shadows should have torn him apart, this wasn't fair... and then a new voice rushed into his head, the voice of his Master, rage dripping from every syllable.
USELESS mortal
And then his vision turned red and he was swept away on a tide of anger and madness...
When he came to, the cuts on his back were healed, though blood was everywhere. It took him a while to realise the blood wasn't his, but rather belonged to the five or so brutally dismembered corpses around him. With a start, he realised he was back in the slums, though how he'd got there he had no idea. Then he remembered his Master, and shivered. He could guess. As if he'd called him, that familiar voice echoed in his head once again.
Listen carefully, Thom. I have instructions for you. Do well, and I shall grant you power... a lot of power. Fail me, and you will wish that Feral had disembowelled you.
I'll PM you regarding the logistics of what just happened.
Martin:
Today was a big day. It was his test, to see if he was capable of further tuition, to see if he was worthy of tuition. Survive the first battle of the Arena, and he would pass. Be defeated and... it was simple, he would not be defeated.
Art had left him, preparing himself for the battles - he was a renowned fighter. This left Martin to go over and over his battle plan, roaming the Gardens for any last minute help. Finally, it was time, and he was ready as could be. Taking a deep breath, and steeling himself for whatever may come, Martin headed towards the Arena.
As luck would have it, his fight was to be against another Shaper, another student, no less. That put them on roughly even grounds - this battle would be one of wits, and strategy. As the signal to fight was given, both of them erupted into motion at once - Martin dashing along the ground, a six legged agile predator, while his opponent errupted into a seething mass of tentacles, each tipped with a barbed hook.
Martin soon realised the futility of attacking head on, and changed, sprouting feathery wings, hollowing his bones, and taking to the air. He scanned his foe for any signs of weakness, but saw none, and he could see the crowd getting restless. They'd come for a fight, not a game of tag. Well, he though grimly, a fight was what they'd get.
He swooped low to the ground, before tucking himself into a ball and changing yet again. This time, he grew bone plates, thick armour covering most of his body, covering a tough a leathery hide. With a earth-shaking thud, he landed, and ponderously turned to face his foe. Before he could even bring himself to bear, tentacles wrapped around him, and though they failed to penetrate his shell, they still threw him, tossing him into the air like a sack of potatoes. He landed unharmed though, protected once again by this carapace, an inferior version of Art's own.
This time, though, he was face on with his enemy. Mouth open, revealing out-of-place fangs, he charged forward, gaining momentum as he picked up speed. Soon he was lumbering forward at full tilt, roaring for all he was worth. It was not to be though, as yet more sinewy limbs wrapped around him, holding him, pinning him. They lifted him up, above the writhing mass of tentacles, which split to reveal a gaping maw. This was not good.
In a panic, Martin sought something, anything that could help him. His roaming mind cast upon his foe's body, and an idea came to him. Focusing his mind, he analyzed his foe, trying to remain calm even as he was drawn ever closer to its maw. He had only moments, but that would have to be enough. Even as he began to change, the tentacles dropped him, and he began to plummet, eyes tightly closed.
He was just in time. Barbed hooks sprouted from his shell, erupting out, catching in the beak of his foe, piercing its gullet. It was messy, it was painful, it was far too close for comfort, but he'd won. And he was proud.
Unfortunately, the pride didn't last long. He was one of many who watched the stranger's brutal attack on Art, watched the stranger throw Art over his shoulder like a sack of wheat before sprinting off into the distance. That was a bit of a buzzkill, really.
What's there to say? Well done. Sorry about your teacher though 
Trap:
What a useless day. Apart from a bit of practice with his newfound talents, he'd done nothing at all. Watched a few battles in the Arena, gone weapon hunting, done a bit of training, done a bit more talking. The metalmorph, who was clearly the most vital member of the team, apparently wasn't going to be picked up until they were at the mountains, which left him at a bit of a loss.
Oh well. At least he'd managed to make something resembling a sword out of thin air, which could definitely come in handy.
I was right, you never did post a reply to my response to your turn. Forgive my exhaustion, but in this case that means nothing interesting happens. When I come back I may change it to suit, but for now it remains as is.
Theo:
Darkness... pain... anger.
He tried to move, but couldn't. It was all he could do to breathe. He was bound, but there was more than a physical binding. He was human, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't feel even the faintest whisper of the Feral mind. He was alone... and that scared him. He was weak, and helpless, and that scared him too. This was why he preferred to be a Feral... they couldn't feel fear.
There was another one with him, a boy, badly beaten by the looks of it, and in a similar state to Theo. A pile of what looked like scrap metal lay beside him, and occassionally Theo heard the sound of his breathing, the only sign he was still alive. There was no such sign from their captor, who came and went like a ghost, and with motives equally mysterious.
Slowly, he returned to consciousness. He felt his bonds being cut, and he felt strength seep back into his bones. The other boy was already gone, and he felt rough hands carry him out, too weak to walk himself. At least the nightmare was over... he was finally free, though still at the mercy of his rescuers. He didn't mind though. Anything was better than that... thing.
Freedom! You've been saved by the expedition, and you accompany them as they escape the city.
Cullos:
Today was going to be a long day. But a fulfilling one. First, he needed to train with the weapons of the area, with the Slasher. Then, to the Arena!
He had not known what to expect, and so received a pleasant surprise when he saw another human, not a monster, as he'd half been expecting. This soon evaporated, however, when the fight began and his oppenent burst into flame, hurling fireballs in his direction.
Mind spinning, he dodged the first two blasts, narrowly avoiding the third - he could feel his eyebrows beginning to singe. This was most definitely not good. In desperation, he lashed out, swinging his slasher at his foe... and then, things slowed almost to a standstill, and he watched his blade glide lazily through the air.
Everything was lit up, and he saw a strange web, a tangle of lines onnecting everything. He saw the fire surging towards him, saw its line too, being gently woven by his opponent. And suddenly, what he had to do was clear.
Things sprand back into clarity, and Cullos angled his blade, just so, neatly slicing the line of the flame. It went out, instantaneously, and, grinning, Cullos advanced, swinging his slasher. This would be fun.
After his victory, he left, declining to continue fighting. He'd made a modest winnings betting on himself, and now he had to practice. He'd been shamed on the obstacle course, and that was painful. He would ensure it did not happen again..
You wear yourself out. You also learn anti-magic, making all but physical attacks useless against you. Handy, and necessary to avoid being owned.
Joseph:
What to do, what to do. He'd discovered the Link's hideout, but he had no intention of going inside alone. He still remembered the punch the Link had given. So he'd made a decision. He'd told the others about the discovery, fat lot of good they'd been. They were academics and researchers, not fighters. In his desperation, he'd gone back to the expedition, muscle was just what he needed right now.
At first, they'd been reluctant. But when he'd mentioned the script, that all changed. He could almost see his eyes light up, could feel the greed from where he was. That was easier than he'd expected, and it only got simpler from there.
The Empaths had been helpful enough to warn him when the Link left his hideout, and it was then Joseph made his move. With no less than 10 bodyguards, he headed back down the alleyway, preparing for the worst. But it didn't come. No dead eyes, no booby traps, nothing. Just the door, with its strange symbols, seeming to call out, to whisper promises of power and money...
but Joseph wasn't interested in those. All he cared about was whoever might be trapped inside. As per the deal, he let the men copy down the runes before gingerly opening the door. Yet again, nothing. Just a long dark hallway, smelling of rot and mold. The end of the hall, however, was a different matter. A bolted steel door, a rarity from another time, though quickly torn to pieces by two Ferals. And behind that... a room, strangely clean, with two people tied up, slumped in what could be sleep, or death.
It turned out to be sleep, and Joseph's heart leapt when he saw the contestant he'd been searching for there. He was alive after all! Still, he hadn't time to waste - if the Link returned, they'd be dead men. So he untied the ropes binding them, noting again the strange symbols painted on them, before gently carrying the boy to safety. Keeping the ropes, in case they ever became useful, h headed out again, after ordering the guards to rescue the other one as well.
One thing was certain, they weren't going to stay. They'd have to leave a bit early, lest the Link rip them to shreds. Joseph didn't mind - it was time he left the city anyway.
Jailbreak! You saved Theo and a NPC. Well done. Also, you're now officially a memebr of the expedition, like it or not.
Backstory for day 5/Art's Fate:
SANCTUARY DAY 5:
Battle:
Art breathed in, held, released. Again, he turned his focus inwards, observing his body through a warrior's eyes, remoulding it into the perfect fighting machine, healing or removing even the slightest weakness. Today, today he would be fighting in the Arena, and he would not fail.
How could he? He was Art, one of the greatest Shapers, entrusted with the duty of passing on his knowledge to his students, in the hopes they may one day be as great as he. He'd had a new student this week, foolish, but hardworking. Art doubted he'd make it, but it did not matter to him. His own victory was all that mattered.
Slowly, he stood up, feeling the corded muscles under his skin. He was named for his masterpiece, an artery, or actually, an entire network of them, a whole new circulatory system, efficiently carrying oxygen to where it was most needed. Perfect for a fighter. As he headed towards the Arena, taking the time for one last stroll through the tranquil Gardens, he allowed himself to relax. After all, he had nothing to fear. His victory was practically assured. Who could beat him?
The sun beat down overhead, burning the sand of the Arena floor. Sweat-stained spectators watched from all sides, cheering for their favourites, while nervous medics stood anxiously nearby. No one was killed during fights, but there was no shortage of injuries, including a few life-threatenng ones. Art, however, waited patiently, observing his first opponent. A Feral – and a green one at that, if you'll pardon the pun. No challenge whatsoever. Art grunted his displeasure – he'd hoped the first battle would have been at least slightly interesting.
It was over almost as soon as it begun. As soon as the signal to fight was given, Art ran, with surprising speed, closing the distance to his foe before the Feral could react. By then, it was all but over, as he efficiently disabled the Feral's limbs with a series of bone-breaking punches before a single claw could be brought to bear. First round to Art.
The second foe was more of a challenge. An Arcanist, wielding fire. Not uncommon in the Arena, and not to be underestimated either. Still, Art had dealt with them before. He simply withstood the flames, allowing his outer layer of skin to be burnt away to reveal the bone carapace underneath, before simply walking forward and defeating his opponent with a single punch. Second round to Art.
He was feeling more confident now, arrogant even. Victory was practically in his grasp. He'd dispatched his first two opponents without a challenge, barely even breaking a sweat. Certainly, no one had posed a threat so far. Hopefully they'd manage to throw something or someone more interesting at him soon. He was starting to get bored.
The third foe seemed unremarkable at first. Features that were easily forgotten, a strangely blank face, and the deadest eyes Art had ever seen were the only warnings of a hidden danger before the battle began and his foe struck. And he struck hard, as hard as Art himself, if not harder. Yet he seemed to barely be moving, flowing through the air instead of moving as a normal human would, attacking with uncanny speed, moving with superhuman agility.
Art grunted in pain as yet another blow hit his chest, cracking the bone carapace to reveal tender flesh underneath. He was healing as well as he was able, but his foe was merciless, and was showing no signs of tiring. With a roar, Art struck out, landing a blow that would have killed any other. Instead, he screamed in pain as his fist connected, feeling the bones break. It was as if he'd punched a wall, or some immovable object.
His foe only laughed. His sneer was evident now, twisting his otherwise plain features into a hideous mask. For the first time, he spoke, harsh voice seeming to writhe and twist in Art's ears as he heard them, chilling him to the bone.
Well done, mortal. You may be worth keeping. We could use your strength. You may be able to free the master. But first... first you must be taken. Tis almost a shame to end such a battle.
Before Art could realise the hideous meaning of his foe's words, he was struck, again and again, a series of blinding blows to his head. He felt something crack, and cried out as his vision began to blur. The crowd's cheers were changing into screams, and shocked officials were rushing forward, their medics in tow. But it was too late, as blow after bone-crushing blow rained down on Art, beating his consciousness into oblivion. Slowly, but surely, his knees buckled, and the body he was so proud of collapsed, dumping him onto the sand. A final thought echoed in his mind before another blow landed and his mind shut down completely:
I would've preferred a boring opponent after all...
Fixed it Acanthus.
AND IT'S DONE! Now I can finally sleep. Strife & Cullos, you two leave the city as well with the expedition. Martin, it's your choice to go with the expedition or track down Art.
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Topic: Changing Lands - A Roleplaying Epic! (Read 13035 times)