Open Chronicles L-l-l-let's Get Ready to Rumble!

[Jason Chronicles]

He struck on her as he would strike upon a rock with a pick in the mines of his homeland. And felt satisfaction as his efforts yielded results like the ore veins of precious metals.

Nostrils flared as he sensed weakness. Kalla dropped his javelins and reached out to seize her shield in one hand, while the other curled into a fist and hurtled toward her gut.

Elsewhere, the other gladiators fought, painting the sands red in an effort to obtain whatever it was they fought for: glory, gold, or to prove something to themselves.

All the while, the crowd screamed their lungs out.

 

[Infernal]

The wind was knocked out of her, she found it hard to breathe, and all she could do to try and make it stop was to hold up her hand in surrender. Turning away, she spit blood on the ground, hanging her head in shame while her fingers on her other hand worked, hidden by her prone figure.

"P-please...stop..." She weezed. "I...I..."

They were almost here, and so with her own blood as the material, she activated the crude, makeshift Rune she had drawn in the sand. "I release you, Undyr's Wrath!"

Three metal spikes burst from the ground, having been redirected by the last desperate swing of her hammer. In a last ditch effort, these projectiles were headed straight for Grozkalla's back, where they would do the most damage.

 

[Jason Chronicles]

Scale mail rattled and Grozkalla felt agonizing pain blossom in his back as three spikes leapt from beneath the sand and slammed into his lightly armored back. Their tips dug through the scale armor and had their succor on his flesh, hanging from his back like leeches, like strange growths.

Blood flowed down his back beneath his maille in hot rivulets, even as it dripped still from his arm where the human had taken a chunk of flesh with her teeth.

Spittle flew from Kalla’s tusks as he let out a roar of pain and fury, glanced behind him, saw no one, then with implacable strength he sought to rip the shield away from the dwarf and beat her into the sand with her own aegis.

 

[Infernal]

In the moment they connected, Wendolyn thought of getting her hammer back, but knew it was too far away. He would kill her with one of the javelins he brought with...of course.

As he turned, the dwarf grabbed at the nearest pole arm, bringing it around in a quick circle. Grozkalla raged, but when he went to grab at her, a surprise waited for him, aimed right for his throat.

"Die!" She screamed, thrusting with all the might she had, her adrenaline pumping as her desperation mounted. Losing wasn't an option, only to win and obtain glory for herself.

 

[Jason Chronicles]

Kalla ripped the shield from her grasp, like tugging a weed from the soil, the roots coming loose in a spray of dirt. She thrust up at him. A thrust for his throat, far, far above her. Kalla slapped at the javelin haft just before it struck and managed to deflect the head from his throat and down into the meat near his collar bone, between his neck and the scale lorica. The iron sank in, but Kalla's nostrils flared and he let it sink deeper still.

Then the shield he'd ripped from her came down upon her, to break her all to pieces. It rose and fell, rose and fell, with the force to shatter bone even through chain.

 

[Infernal]

When it was over, the dwarf indeed laid broken, her body still, her heart just barely beating. She no longer felt pain, only a deep numbness, which accompanied the darkness that clouded her vision.

Breaths came in shallow and wheezing, bleeding internally, with so many broken bones. Her own survival would be a miracle, if she did at all. At the very least, she fought till the last.

 

[Jason Chronicles]

Blood made the sand around them muddy.

Disgust twisted the huge lips of the ogre and he tossed the dwarven shield aside as one might toss rotted fruit. Then he ripped the javelin from his chest and hurled it into the sand too.

"This one is finished," he called to the adjudicator, then reached behind his back, trying and failing to seize the spikes hanging from his flesh, and huffing in frustration and pain like a lowing ox.

 

[Infernal]

Her fingers, smashed and purple, unfurl as the last breath escapes her lips. She is still, eyes closed, the warrior priestess has finally passed on.

A feeling of unease and dread begins to emanate in the area. The wind howls, and a message is etched into the muck of sand, sweat and tears.

Vengeance

It disappears before anyone else but Grozkalla can see it. The Sword of Damacles has been released, and now hangs above the warriors head.

 

[Smiling One]

Just as intended, Willis needed the woman to be off balanced normally warriors would struggle focusing on two things at once. Getting up, Willis stepped forward his Cutlass infront of him and performed a fast vertical slash aiming for her left shoulder.

 

[Ermengarde]

With a fel swooping motion Ermengarde hit the sabre between the blade and crossguard. Simultaneously angling her body further sideways and going in for another lunge, aiming her tip at his sword wrist while trying to mantain the sabre lodged in.

 

[Smiling One]

Sparks began to fly as Willis' Cutlass collided with her Raiper. The two of them locked up for a few seconds before he saw the woman attempting another lunge with the tip of her blade attempting to meet his wrist. That won't do, Willis wound his head back and went for a headbutt against her forehead in attempt to knock her on her but.

 

[Ermengarde]

This won't do either. What was the map up to. Ermengarde swiweled sideways, falling off to the ground just to dodge the potentially awful headbutt, only catching her fall with her sword elbow, the tip still pointing at Willis.

 

[TTamark]

The healers wished they could rush out to save the dwarf, but the rules were sticked, they had to wait for ten counts before the fight was announced over, and they could rush out. When the time was up the referee stepped out announced Grozkalla the winner, as the healers were already upon the fighters. The ones who reached Wendolyn wore grave expressions before shaking their heads.

Around the same time another contestant had just finished one of their fights as well. With another ref loudly announcing a Matari as the winner of their fight.

 

[Matari NoTail]

Matari cracked his neck, the masked kitsune glancing towards where the medics were busy putting the arm of his opponent back on. They'd live... probably. He glanced down at his axe, the large weapon almost as tall as him from where he had it planted into the ground. They always seemed to expect him to move slower than he did. Then again, he supposed he'd make the same mistake. It's hard accounting for magic on a slow day, let alone when you're in an arena.

He glanced over towards where another contestant had won his bout. His second as well, he believed. The... he was going to hazard a guess at ogre, too small for a giant, too big for a human, was certainly a contender to win the whole thing, and as he glanced towards where his second opponent was being carted off, it didn't take a genius to guess who he was going to be up against next. That particular thought made him wish he could drink some of the booze he was carrying in his hap flask, but he knew he needed to stay alert, and plus... it was a scorching day. No way that was gonna be pleasant.

So for the moment, the kitsune simply sat upon the ground next to his axe, breathing steadily and sipping from a small waterskin, waiting for his next opponent.

 

[TTamark]

A referee announce that Aeyliea and seogsa 's recovery times were up, they would be pitted up against each other for their second fight.

After five minutes passed another would announce Grozkalla and Matari NoTail as opponents.

 

[Matari NoTail]

"Aright. Lets try this then." Matara grumbled to himself as he stood up, using his grip on his axe to haul himself upwards. Pulling the steel out of the dirt, he gave the large weapon a twirl, before ensuring he had the proper grip upon it. Couldn't go up against someone like this without ensuring you were ready, after all. Making his way over towards the part of the arena he had been designated, he waited for his opponent to arrive.

 

[childish brandino]

Kishou regained consciousness only minutes following his loss. Healers were busy treating his side, and quite effectively at that.

Kishou’s mind, however, replayed his frustrating loss. He wondered if it was overconfidence in his own abilities, or if he underestimated his opponent. Regardless, he should have fought more cautiously. With a sigh, he dismissed those thoughts. He wondered if he’d ever get the chance to fight her again.

He wouldn’t.

Around the time the healers finished treating him, the winner between Grozkalla and Wendolyn was announced. The healers laid Wendolyn’s corpse on a stretcher, and quickly draped a white piece of fabric over her. They rushed away.

Moments later, his next opponent was announced. Kishou, who had been taken off the field, scanned his surroundings. He made eye contact with Aeyliea, and courteously bowed his head towards her.

For one of them, this would be their last bout in the tournament.

 

[Jason Chronicles]

Attendants came and bore away the body of the dwarf. Through the din of the crowd and the clatter of those still fighting on the sands, Kalla caught snatches of the conversation.

She was dead.

The ogre felt no pity for her limp corpse. She knew what stepping upon the sands could entail. Better a death in battle than a death in bed.

Five medicas worked in tandem with arcane healing, removing the spikes from his body and causing the wounds on his back, chest, and arm to heal and the bruise on his thigh to fade away to nothing. He felt well rested and whole again, but the medicas looked spent. The price of magic.

Grozkalla sniffed, then turned to face his latest foe on sand so spattered with scarlet ichor that in places it had turned to muddy puddles.

Beady eyes settled upon Matari NoTail, a thin whelp that looked to be a human, wielding an axe impossibly large for his size. Even if he was strong enough to wield that axe, he would have been slow. Perhaps his opponents had been fools for him to make it thus far, or perhaps there was something more at play.

Kalla forewent his mighty two-handed sword, his bow, and even the javelins. The scimitar at his waist rasped as he drew it out and he approached Matari at a steady plod.

 

[Matari NoTail]

Oh great, it could think. Just his luck. The kitsune had been hoping the damn thing had just made his way through the tournament on brute strength and natural toughness alone, but considering the way he was taking it slowly, and the fact that he wasn't using the big fuckoff sword, Matari was going to hazard a guess at the fact that that wasn't the case.

Breathing through his nose, he entered a ready stance. He didn't want to play his cards just yet, but he couldn't afford not to. In terms of sheer ability, there was no way he'd win this fight, so dirty it was. The kitsune crouched, before once again feeling the embrace of the wind as he channelled his mana. With a burst of movement, he dashed towards the ogre with supernatural speed, axe coming in horizontally for a swing at his midsection as he aimed to pass by on the side opposite the scimitar.

 

[Jason Chronicles]

Sand kicked up in the wake of the axe-wielding foe, whose speed surpassed both of Kalla's previous opponents. Far faster than any human or elf had right to be.

Sorcery.

Kalla had no such magics, only training since birth for a single purpose: to crush his enemies, with whatever weapons he had at his disposal, a warrior of Kherkhana.

The ogre's braided mane swayed as his scimitar swept up and caught the incoming axe, deflecting the blow, and he pivoted, the man blowing past him on feet like howling winds.

 

[Matari NoTail]

He supposed it was too much to hope that would be the end. As the scimitar came up to block the axe Matari felt the shock run through his legs as the ogre didn't even budge, spinning with surprising grace as Matari flew past. Digging his heels into the sand, he spun himself to look back at the ogre, squinting at him from behind his mask. Just as he thought, the guy knew what he was doing.

Yet he couldn't slow down. He needed to keep his momentum up for now, until the wind grew fickle once more. He couldn't afford to run in directly against this opponent, or use his axe to lock up with someone so physically superior. So that meant he needed to level the playing field.

His fingers twitched upon where he held the shaft of his axe, and the kitsune ran in for the same strike again. Yet this time, as he neared, he directed the wind to throw sand from the arena into the eyes of his opponent, and changed his target from the ogre's midsection to his leg, aiming to at least wound it.

 

[Jason Chronicles]

Sand sprayed upward and caught Kalla in the eyes, he threw up a hand reflexively, blinking, trying to clear them. Even as he did so he retreated, backpedaling, trying not to stumble.

He never felt the impact, a sudden hot line across his thigh that grew in warmth and intensity until it flared with molten pain. Blood sheeted down his leg, soaking his shoes and leaving the sand red beneath him.

Kalla seemed to stumble, then fell clumsily upon his back.

 

[Edmund Adelard]

Edmund hadn't been in a full set of armor since he fought for his late king. He'd decided to trade it out for a set of lighter clothing when he began his mercenary work. That, and he couldn't stand the tragic memories that came with his old set of armor.

Nevertheless, it was refreshing to step into the ring and breath in the air while dawning his old crest. Edmund smiled at the thought, then wiped it aside to meet the eyes of his competition.

He was a tall komodi with enchanting blue eyes and too many weapons. Edmund didn't stress too much about it and instead drew his blade. It was slightly rusted, holding an aged glory about it. Its wielder didn't mind the look of it.

Edmund ran a gloved hand through his hair, thankful that he'd outgrown wearing a helmet in his recent years. He found them much to constricting and horribly uncomfortable. The slight breeze threw his dark locks out of his face.

He raised his sword so it pointed at his opponent and pulled it back in both hands. Then, he lunged forward in a way that seemed he was going to attack while his stance suggested a defensive strategy.

 

[Matari NoTail]

A thrill of satisfaction worked its way through Matari at the success of his ploy, the kitsune spinning on his heels to look at the fallen ogre. Planting his axe in the ground and leaning against it, the kitsune looked over towards the fallen blue ogre. "You give up?" he called out, hoping that this is where the fight ended. "Make me." Came the rumbling reply, as the big guy got to one knee. Damn, if he wasn't tough. But he was also pretty much down a leg. Matari just had to not screw it up now. Needed to keep the pressure going.

"Alright, I tried." He responded, before hefting his axe from the sand once more and speeding towards the ogre off to the side of him and bringing the axe at a horizontal angle once more, hoping to take the arm that was helping hold the ogre up whilst still keenly aware of that scimitar held within the other hand. The medics could reattach the arm, so he'd live. Probably.

 

[Szesh]

The devil hovered for a time, staying out of reach of the spear. Szesh tracked his bobbing with dark eyes, ready for any change in trajectory that might indicate attack. He expected more fireballs to rain down, but none came.

Instead, Arumi darted straight up into the sky. Instinctively Szesh’s gaze followed into the bright flare of the sun. He squinted, invisible pupils narrowing to thread-thin slits. The gambit had worked, and Arumi was quite invisible against the harsh daylight.

It was only when he was close enough that his body blocked the sun’s rays that Szesh realized the deception. He had only enough time to cross his arms in front of his body before Arumi made contact. He hit hard, and Szesh growled loudly as the scales on his forearms were seared by hot flames. His massive shoulders rippled like quicksilver as he pushed back. Through the shimmering heat, he saw his opponent’s face.

He truly was a devil. Mesmerizing and unnatural eyes peered out from dappled skin, and the mane of hair around those ram’s horns further conjured images of ferality. Szesh could feel the scar on his back burning, as it always did, but it had begun to pale by comparison to his sizzling flesh. Perhaps Draco felt he had earned a moment of reprieve, or more likely, that Arumi could inflict far more direct suffering.

Defiance welled up within him. He had not wanted to reveal his ace so soon, but he did not appear to have a choice. If it was fire the devil wanted, it was fire he would get. A swirling heat took root in Szesh’s chest, and he inhaled deeply.

A flicker of orange backlit his teeth for but a moment before the jaw was flung open, and a plume of red fire erupted forth.