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Better Than Gore

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  1. Ryker had underestimated his opponent; an oncoming blow to the head made that pretty obvious, luckily for Ryker he would be able to absorb a majority of the blow by practically replicating Arthur's own technique. He wouldn't fully commit to the jab, the very second he saw Arthur's weight shift he knew it wasn't going to land, so instead of fully extending his attacking left arm he simply pulled back. Just in time too, as Arthur's shin collided with the arm, more specifically the forearm. This wouldn't stop the kick, per say, but it would absorb the brunt of it. It still hurt, a lot, and forced Ryker to stumble a bit to his right. Immediately circling, Ryker's right arm fired in the form of a stiff uppercut, aimed to connect with Arthur's exposed side. @Voldemort
  2. Arthur closed what little distance they had between each other in the blink of an eye; Ryker had little to no time to react, so he let basic instinct take the wheel. Ryker needed to reopen that gap so he could act accordingly, so he preformed a go-to Muay Thai fundamental known as the teep, or front push kick. His forward right knee rose and the remainder of his leg lashed out, simultaneously moving his hips and shoulders backwards to add a little more oomph to the attack. Ryker's foot aimed to make contact with Arthur's abdomen. There wasn't enough force for it to hurt per say, but certainly enough to stop his momentum and leave an opening for Ryker to follow up if Arthur's advance continued. Assuming Arthur didn't reconsider his approach, Ryker was ready for him this go-round with a hand combination. Starting with a basic left jab. @Voldemort
  3. Arthur spoke of fate. "Who are you?" Ryker added in before Arthur continued. It had been quite sometime since an outsider stumbled upon Absalom, let alone actually stepped foot inside. "Couldn't say, nobody has explored the entirety of the Sarcophagus and lived to tell the tale." At this point Ryker was just feeding into the superstition surrounding the crater, all anyone had to go off of was tall tales. Some believed an ancient alien civilization crash landed and inevitably died off, only for their technology and weaponry to be scavenged by those brave enough to step foot inside. There were many variations of the story, of course. Most believable was that the technology helped contribute to building their beautiful City. "Now you're starting to piss me off." Ryker clenched his jaw. Taking a final hit of his joint, it would be flicked onto the floor and snuffed out via boot heel. "Tell you what, if you manage to beat me in say... hand to hand combat, I'll accompany you to the Sarcophagus." It was at that very moment that a shuddering chill crept up his spine. A chittering like noise broke the silence of their stare down. It was starving. @Voldemort
  4. "Did Miguel lace me again?" Yes. It had happened on more than one occasion. Ryker's gaze fell upon the joint betwixt his fingers, contemplating whether or not it could have been tampered with. That was really the only possibility, otherwise there may have actually been someone in his establishment demanding to be taken on a tour. Ryker stared at it for a good moment or two before returning Arthur's stare. Then it dawned on him, it unfortunately wasn't some psychedelic experience, Arthur was real. "Well, this is officially the last time I volunteer to close." Ryker sighed and shook his head in disappointment before taking another hit from his re-appropriated cigarette. "You must be referring to the Sarcophagus. It's supposedly ancient and alien in nature." Ryker made sure to express the word alien exaggeratedly with his hands. Or at least that's what all the stories foretold. Why they decided to build an entire City just above something so mysterious was still a mystery. He personally thought the Matriarch must have been touched in head to come up with such an idea. "Do I look like a god damn tour guide to you?" Rhetorical question. @Voldemort
  5. Owning and operating a nightclub meant you were the first one in and the last one out. Closing was tedious--correction, closing properly was tedious. Cleaning up after a night full of booze, drugs, and many other vices was very time consuming. Most of the time Ryker had help, but not tonight, as considerate as he had felt he was now regretting that decision. If uninterrupted, preparing the Club for the morning shift would take him a couple hours. So as soon as the last person stumbled out the front doors, he went to work, picking up every bottle and glass, disposing of them properly. Glass wear went into the sink behind the bar and bottles went into the trash. Once that had been accomplished, out came the washrag, wiping up the tables and bar top with a combination of bleach and soap. Then came the chairs, placing them neatly atop the tables. Last but not least, sweeping and mopping, which was probably the most time consuming out of all the other tasks. People were messy. But before he could truly close for the night, Ryker had to enjoy a vice of his own. Taking a seat at the bar, he would withdraw a nicely rolled joint from his jacket pocket. Placing it firmly between his lips before lighting it. It didn't take long before a majority of the club reeked of potent cannabis, as plumes of smoke were exhaled from his nostrils only to forever linger. "What a night." A sigh of relief escaped him as his eyes slowly but surely glazed over. @Voldemort
  6. "Leaving it up to me, eh?" Ryker chuckled. A hand snaked down and patted Pyrrah's rear only to grab a handful. "What do you think, Pyrrah? Do you want Celine to watch?" Ryker's gaze hadn't drifted from Celine, even as his hand sought something much more delicate, playfully rubbing momentarily before returning to his lap. Ryker was already set on letting Celine stay, despite what his newfound pet may have wanted. "I assume you can close up tonight, #3?" --- "Absolutely, sir. Enjoy." Nodding in acknowledgment, #3 left the office, closing the door behind him. Escorting Celine's money to her vehicle, he would stand watch at the bar and would probably have to break up a fight and or throw a customer out that got too hands on with a dancer. "Well then," Ryker added just as the door came to a close. "Let's see what you have hidden under there, shall we?" Another snap echoed. Creating some distance between the desk and himself via scooting his chair back a bit, his leg would return to its original resting place atop the other, getting comfortable once more. "Make yourself comfortable, Celine." Which could have meant numerous things. @Witches Brew @Houndy Poochykins
  7. "Quite the find." Ryker's gaze lingered for a moment or so after her spin concluded. "That's correct, Pyrrah." His hand gestured for them to sit, allowing them to get comfortable before returning to his own seat. Now that he had seen the merchandise, it was time to conclude their business. Once seated, his closest hand would open the top drawer of his desk and feel for his lock box. Hastily entering the combination, the locking mechanism would click open, permitting him access. "Same arrangement as before, I presume?" Celine wasn't dumb. Pyrrah was a rare find and unfortunately with rarity came a much higher asking price. A brief chuckle followed his question, he knew ahead of time what her answer would be, but it didn't hurt to ask. Taking a moment to eye what he had stashed inside, he closed it with a sigh, before she had a chance to interject he stood up and made his way to the wall just left of his desk. Placing his hand against it, a bright red beam traced the outline and the wall unveiled a safe. Entering yet another combination, the door to said safe opened exposing a large stack of neatly folded currency. "That should do it." Hopefully. "You can count it if you'd like," Ryker assumed Celine trusted him by now, despite his borderline sociopathic behavior and line of work, Ryker was a man of his word. "Now the real question is, what exactly should I do with you?" His gaze turned to Pyrrah. Ryker didn't have the slightest clue what she was capable of, he was trusting that Celine had done her research before coming to him. Was she educated enough to do payroll? Or did he just hire another pretty face? "Ahhh, now that's an idea." Apparently he had already made up his mind. Making his way back to his seat, he situated himself and snapped his fingers, demanding that she come to him. It was probably better to assert his dominance in the presence of Pyrrah's present owner, if that's what she considered Celine. "Come lay at my feet for the time being, I'll better assess your skills once we're alone.. unless of course you'd like to observe and or participate Celine?" Another smile. @Witches Brew @Houndy Poochykins
  8. Their escort was stationed just outside of the main entrance, prepared to greet them upon arrival. He even went as far as opening the car door for them once their vehicle stopped. "Ah, Celine. Mr. Albrecht has been expecting you." His hand was offered for assistance. Around his neck was a lanyard that read #3, the number itself didn't have any relevance, Ryker's memory just wasn't what it used to be. #3 and the rest of the security personnel inside were all dressed alike, a white n-neck shirt that was probably too small for their massive frame, black cargo pants and steel toed boots. "On our way, sir." Leading them inside, they would have to navigate their way through the crowd, which wouldn't prove too troublesome as the patrons seemed to scurry upon noticing his approach. Fog billowed from machinery and snaked across the floor, some found it a little on the extreme side, due to having to practically wade through it. Aesthetics were everything to Ryker. If the fog didn't make that evident, then the strobe lighting and random laser shows would. Granted, every performance had a different stage effect. Had to keep them on the edge of their seat, right? Every once in awhile #3 looked over his shoulder to ensure he hadn't lost Ryker's company, he'd have his head if so. Upon reaching Ryker's office, another security guard would promptly nod and open the door for them. Inside was an entirely different atmosphere, it was a lot colder in this room, for obvious reasons. It was practically bare, save for a couple paintings on the wall, presumably lineage. There was a much smaller stage stationed in the center, equipped with a pole, and speakers sporadically placed. Then a desk, with two rather comfortable looking chairs placed in front of it, and the head honcho himself. Seated in an equally comfortable chair, with one leg folded atop of the other. Ryker was dressed much fancier than his hired muscle, he adorned a slim fitting black suit, equipped with a vest and a royal purple tie. Dark brown hair was half-assed styled into a fauxhawk, high faded on both the sides and back. Hazel-green eyes observed their movements, with an occasional twitch. His fingers racked the desk repeatedly as they approached, out of impatience or habit was for them to decide. "Celine! How's business?" A smile greeted the duo, a flash of silver from capped canines. Standing to properly greet them, Ryker stood at 5'11" and was athletically built. His sleeves were rolled up just below the elbow, showing off his vibrantly colored tattoos, stretching from the tops of his hands up onto his shoulders and beyond. Stubble coated a chiseled jawline, likely out of laziness. Bags laid underneath of his eyes due to his habits, he had probably been up for days at this point, which persuaded him even more to bring on an assistant. "What do you have for me today, hm?" He gave Celine's companion a once over before making his way around the desk to get a closer look. "Do a spin for me, will ya sweetheart?" He even incorporated a hand gesture just in case she didn't understand his inquiry. @Witches Brew @Houndy Poochykins
  9. Fatal Seduction was thriving; which was a double edged sword, on one hand clientele increased significantly and on the other hand they were slowly but surely expressing less interest on the entertainment the establishment had to offer. They wanted variety. They wanted exotic. Ryker agreed and sought out entertainment the City of Absalom had never seen before. In order to work for Fatal Seduction, an entertainer had to go through a screening process, assuming they passed they were placed on a probation, so to speak. An entertainer had a preset amount of time to make a certain amount of money to be considered for full time employment. With his high standards, most didn't make it through the screening. It was rather simple; if a potential employee could turn him on, his customers would be putty in their hands. Which spelled money. Ryker's schedule was hectic, if he wasn't interviewing, he was off running his other line of work. Perhaps a secretary would be beneficial. That was something he often pondered, but it would have to be someone he could trust. Someone who was capable of running his club in his absence. Sure, there were plenty of people on his payroll that could fit that role, but there was one problem with that, they were all men. Hired muscle to do Ryker's dirty work. He couldn't trust them to keep an eye on his beloved Club, or to put their noses where they didn't belong, among many other things. It would have to be a woman. So that's what he was looking for today, a secretary. But at the same time, they had to fall under the same category all of his employees did. They had to be beautiful and above all else, exotic. Just his clientele seeing them would put their wandering imaginations at ease. "Sir, I believe your interview has finally arrived, should I escort her to your office?" A brutish voice came to life inside his earpiece. "Please." Ryker answered. And so he waited. @Houndy Poochykins @Witches Brew
  10. Geography The Arcology is a colossal megastructure comprised of scintillating agri-domes, elegant spires, and graceful monorails - encompassing a microsociety of about ten thousand souls. Its towering heights lord over the desolate remains of a once pristine alpine forest, the only point of light in the sprawling wasteland. Holographic advertisements loom over the churning industry of the surrounding badlands, acclaiming the virtues of this jewel of self-sufficient civilization. Organization Absalom is divided among its shareholders, with the position of owner and leader granted to the majority stake. While some maintenance of the overall structure is maintained by the owner, individual levels and wings of the arcology are the responsibility of their private holders. As such, interior aesthetics of one area may vary drastically from another. Because the fundamental right of a citizen is property, those that own no property, or whose property, including their life, is rendered forfeit by incurred debts, are stripped of citizenship and relegated to servitude and slavery until such a time as the debt is repaid. In reality, however, because a lack of means to protect one’s assets is commonly considered forfeiture, even those completing their contracted enslavement often immediately find themselves back in bondage just to be able to feed themselves. Free citizens, but whom own less than 1% of the arcology, are a fragile middle class that dwindles daily, and are only replenished by new arrivals to this futuristic ‘utopia’. Government and Politics Law Contracts rule all but the most informal of exchanges. Because there are no non-private adjudicators, private middlemen almost inevitably favor the party with greater influence in disputes regarding these contracts, making justice a hopeless pursuit for most. When adjudication fails, squads of private security forces are deployed, leading to brief but incredibly violent shareholder turf wars in which one party will attempt to seize the assessed debt it feels it is owed. The common result is total seizure of assets, to cover the ‘cost’ of the operation, and subsequent enslavement. Somewhat paradoxically, the average day is relatively peaceful and secure for the bulk of the arcology’s denizens, as the threat of wholesale destruction and the ubiquity of high-powered personal weaponry make most sane people strongly reconsider the use of physical force, or attempting an unlawful act. Nonetheless, criminal elements do exist, inseparably entwined into the fabric of the ultra-capitalist society, functioning as yet another tool for ambitious holders to undermine their peers. Foreign Relations Absalom's foreign relations are currently still formative, but are generally cordial. The owner recognizes that national governments, even those with inferior technology, command resource monopolies that a neofeudal city-state cannot hope to match in open conflict. Trade and diplomacy are conducted openly to import what little the arcology cannot produce on its own, and to market its own products far and wide. Military The Arcology’s armed forces consist chiefly of the private security forces hired and outfitted by the aggregate of the holders. However, the owner separately employs a full company of mercenaries loyal to herself, as well as a fleet of 200 semi-autonomous armored drones that can rapidly deploy anti-riot ordinance as well as lethal munitions if necessary. Economy Absalom's economy is a complicated mix of give and take. It's a lucrative locale for companies or governments to contract out the labor necessary for product manufacture, being that labor is so cheap and available here due to the prevalence of indentured servitude. In a way you could say that Arcology City's biggest export good is labor. Workers of all sort are exploited within the territory of Absalom. Factory workers, laborers, programmers, and sex workers are the most common types. A sizable portion of the population is under some contract or another, often the indentured servitude kind, binding them to a term of unpaid service. These terms, and by extension the people for which they are made, can be bought and sold. In the sprawling slums that comprise the hinterlands around the main tower there are dozens of industrial sectors dedicated to the processing of raw materials. These factories are populated largely by the lowest rung of Arcology caste, and as they are indentured their labor is sold cheaply. Moving within the tower, scores of programmers are bought and sold from one corporation to the next. The trade of indentured servitude contracts is common with workers that have special skills. Another practice is for companies to own nothing but these contracts, selling or renting the rights to various corporations as freelance indentured servants. Absalom produces high tech and completed goods. Anything from portable electronics, to medical prosthesis, or even fully functional life auxiliary Androids. These kinds of goods are what most companies in Absalom sell abroad for money and goods. The main import of the city is raw materials and food stuffs, as these things are difficult to find or produce. If you can dream of something and there is a way for that thing to be manufactured then you can probably find it in Absolom. Just don't think about the exploitation that built it and you can sleep easy. Canon and History Completed Threads History The origins of Absalom are hardly a secret. While the average citizen might not be aware, anybody who goes out of their way to research the subject will quickly run across local folklore. Absalom is not a nation, not in the sense that a traditional nation is. Rather, having no actual governing body, it is a microcosm of individual organizations attempting to live in proximity. It is generally agreed between corporations that a certain respect for common law is necessary, but why do all of these groups choose to operate here? The reason is simple, and it has a name; The Sarcophagus. The Sarcophagus is a structure that exists, buried deep underground at the very heart of Absalom. The only portion of this structure that exists above ground is a vast open hole - a hole over which the main body of the city is suspended over. It has been speculated that this structure, The Sarcophagus, is actually a ship from some unknown space faring civilization that crash landed in the wilds of Fracture. Nobody knows for sure how it got here. Back when the city first formed, it was occupied by tomb raiders and grave robbers who went into this opening to look for treasure, and what they found was both wondrous and terrifying. The Sarcophagus was filled with autonomous machines, hyper advanced technology, unheard of metals, and most perplexingly it was also stuffed to the brim with the living dead. They aren't Zombies, so to speak, but rather their organic components have been commandeered by the very technology that built their home. These early adventurers waded into the depths of The Sarcophagus. Those lucky, or skilled enough to return came back with tech that had previously been unseen and unheard of. It was these few who began the very first corporations of Absalom. These days, ventures into The Sarcophagus are rare and dangerous. It is less profitable than it was in the beginning as an understanding of the tech within has been reached. With the ability to replicate the tech laying inside, it's seen as a net loss to send people inside, even if they do return alive. Even so, it is estimated that a mere five percent of the structure has been explored with untold miles of corridors and Chambers laying unseen beneath the wasteland below, and around Absalom.
  11. Chapter 1: Imprisoned. “Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torment of man.” — Friedrich Nietzsche The cell’s darkness was massive and palpable; it robbed those inhabiting it of their sense of direction, they stood motionless and afraid to budge. They were accompanied by a sinister silence broken only by the gnawing and scurrying of rats. The gnawing only grew louder and nearer, filling them with dread lest the starving rats attacked their bare feet. One prisoner in particular leaned against a stone wall and slumped down, exhausted. Only to feel the slimy creeping of an unknown creature on his face. Horrified, he rose and determined to pace in the tiny cell. A guard finally arrived to deliver a slice of bread and a cup of water — the prisoner was outraged that three days had passed without a meal. The guard offered bad news; only one day had passed, his sense of time had vanished. Located in the Church was a dimly lit basement — two narrow side-by-side cells, they appear to be about four feet wide and eight feet long. Rust has eaten away the edges of the cells’ steel doors. Cracked paint, stained with filth, covers the walls. The heat was virtually intolerable and the aroma was terrible. Within one of these cells was the empty shell of a man, a once proud and noble Knight, stripped of his nobility and pride. Left to rot once the governing body of Temple City uprooted themselves to somewhere more worthy of their attention. On the brink of starvation, carcasses of rats and other creepy crawlers littered the cell’s floor. His hair and beard unkempt. His face sunken in and skin taut. The sound of footsteps and voices could be faintly heard above him. “Down here!” He shouted probably to no avail. Hope. @Spooky Mittens & @Witches Brew
  12. Pregnant? Zanzarog was silent for a moment while he pondered on what she said. He had been away for awhile, so he wouldn't have seen any of the early signs that normally came with pregnancy. Morning sickness, mood swings, what have you. Who told her this? Zanzarog doubted anyone in Coth of all places, was educated enough to detect pregnancy so early. Mythandriel certainly wasn't showing by any means. “That's.. that's.. fantastic!” Zanzarog shouted, his hands immediately took hold of her waist and lifted her up into the air. Spinning her around a couple times before putting her back down safely onto the ground. “Who confirmed this?” He inquired. Zanzarog was excited, that much was certain. There was also a large amount of worry and paranoia running right alongside it. Mythandriel likely wouldn't pick up on those due to how exaggerated his excitement had been. How was he going to do what he needed to do with Mythandriel carrying his child? Was this the test Nisnav hinted at? All of this was frustrating and exciting all at the same time. Before Mythandriel had a chance to answer his question, he pulled her back into his embrace once more. “I hope it takes after you. I'm not too great looking.” Zan laughed. @Witches Brew
  13. “On time for once, that's a surprise.” Zanzarog's voice came from seemingly nowhere. Emerging from the brush clad in a dark robe, his hands were folded into the sleeves and the bottom dragged along the ground, he was practically a shadow. A massive one, but a shadow nonetheless. “We don't have much time. They have probably already realized I'm missing.” His hood shifted as he looked over his shoulder back towards the swamp. They? Who was he referring to? Zanzarog needed to keep Mythandriel in the dark for now. “I have something for you. I borrowed it from someone back at camp.” Shuffling around in his robe an open hand outstretched toward her, within it was a necklace. The chain itself was gold, it shimmered when the moonlight struck it just right, but the prize was the jewel attached. Crimson and rather large in size, it pulsed vibrantly in his palm, rhythmically even. “This necklace is special, well, it is now that I got my hands on it.” A chuckle escaped him. “Don't ask me how, but it's imbued with parts of my very essence. It pulses along with my heartbeat.” Zanzarog continued. Now Mythandriel wouldn't have to worry whether or not he was alive, she had reassurance with every glow. “We will have to meet in secret from here on out, it might be days, weeks, even months until we can safely see each other again.” He explained. Once he finished speaking, he stepped closer to her and embraced her. Wrapping his massive frame around her and squeezing lightly. “I love you Mythandriel and I always will.” @Witches Brew
  14. “I don't belong in that place anymore.” Zanzarog scoffed. It was up to Mythandriel to decide which place he was referring to. “Your time is up,” Zanzarog added, he cast a sidelong glance at the demonic creature leering at them. Hopefully Mythandriel could read lips. ‘Meet me here tonight’, was mouthed just before his helmet was repositioned atop his head, a skeletal grimace stared at her once more. “You never saw us.” His fiendish companion felt the need to chime in, only to swallow hard when Zanzarog silenced him with a stare. “Until we meet again.” An armored hand sought the top of her head, giving her a pat. Twirling his halberd, it positioned itself across his back once more and he took a step back creating distance between the two of them. Mythandriel wouldn't be able to read his facial expression due to his visage; however, his tone said it all, regret carried it. But it was too late for that now, there was no turning back now, the path he chose forbid it. Forbid them. But perhaps there was a fork somewhere that would allow him to be with her once more. “Goodbye, beautiful.” His orcish dialect came into play, he doubted the demon understood it. @Witches Brew
  15. “As you wish.” An enormous hand rose to take hold of the visage, fingers snaked into the sockets and lifted it. Mythandriel's assumption was correct. Zanzarog was the man behind the mask. His face was riddled with scars and lacerations, one was far more prominent than the others, it stretched diagonally from his forehead to his upper lip. His right eye was a cloudly white, blinded from the injury. Heavy bags laid underneath his eyes, as if he hadn't slept for days, weeks even. One of his tusks was capped with silver, likely due to a break. Nisnav's torture had done a number on his appearance, but nothing compared to the mental strain. “I forgot how persistent you can be, Mythandriel.” Zanzarog's voice had also dramatically changed, it wasn't just the helmet altering it. Lifting his chin, more scarring was visible at the throat, it appeared his vocal chords had been savagely operated on. “As promised,” In one swift motion the halberd came down, the blade hovered just inches away from her face. Inching closer, the point of the weapon would rest underneath of her chin, lifting it to force a stare, assuming his monstrous appearance diverted her eyes. His face contoured into a smirk. “Do we have time for this, m'Lord?” A fiendish voice called out from the brush. Red eyes peered out at Mythandriel and their Master. Moving the brush from its face, it was a demonic looking creature, impish in nature. “Either kill her or let her go, I'm sure the opportunity will present itself again later.” It hissed. “Aye, you might be right about that.” Zanzarog added, lowering his weapon. “If you have something to say to me, now's the time, otherwise… you'll have a chance to scream it next time we meet.” @Witches Brew
  16. The chase was on. Black Phillip was fast, but his stamina wasn't on par with his speed. Soon the beast would slow down; however, they had quite a head start, so by the time they did come to a stop they were exactly where they needed to be, bordering the forest and swampland. They would be waiting for her there, giving the Springjack a moment or two to catch his breath. The Necromancer would dismount and draw his halberd, wielding it upright and motionless. “What do you hope to accomplish little Elf? Are you that eager to die?” His voice boomed and his head tilted out of sheer curiosity. “It's not yet your time, but I could certainly make an exception.” @Witches Brew
  17. She would have seen him. At first gaze his body might evoke images of Eldritch creatures from beyond the mortal world. It was a writhing mass of flesh and bone, exposed and skinless. A visage of bone with coals in the eye sockets. Horns framed this skeletal grimace like a demon and all of the hope and joy in the world seemed like an impossible fantasy while gazing upon it. Layers of sinew stretched forever beneath the myriad of bones that encased this terror, wet with forever fresh blood and the distinct stench of a battlefield. He wore the skeletons of men like a second skin. Whomever it was found the situation quite amusing, as a deep bellow echoed from his visage. Mythandriel was greeted by an ominous stare. An unnatural feeling of dread would overcome her, it seemed to grow the longer he stared. “I apparently underestimated you, Mythandriel. I'll keep that in mind for the future. Now if you'll excuse me,” His voice was deep and guttural. Without so much as a warning, a gauntlet clad hand took a handful of Phillip's thick wool and he pulled himself up and onto the creature's back. Black Phillip immediately kicked off, clearing the Elf and Elk with room to spare and off toward the tree line. Mythandriel had a decision to make, pursue the stranger or cut her losses and see to her wounds. @Witches Brew
  18. Mythandriel's assumption was incorrect, the Sorcerer knew a handful of spells, he had just been saving them for the right moment. Which was now. Another arrow struck him, this time it hit a lot closer to home than he would have liked, an inch or two more and it probably would have sealed his fate. Arturo was flat on his back and hopefully wouldn't be able to keep up his resolve much longer. Mythandriel's positioning was also now very apparent, if the arrow wasn't a dead giveaway, the sound of her puking was. The Sorcerer aimed his hand in her general direction and the other towards the downed Half Elf. “DIES!” Without any other warning, both hands projected a cone of fire, spiraling from his palm and spreading outward a good four feet. His goal was to set both of them on fire and end this bout once and for all. Which probably would have occurred… Had the spell not backfired. As soon as it began to spread, a vacuum like effect took place and the destructive magic turned back on its caster. Setting fire to his robe and engulfing him in the blink of an eye. “EEEEEK!” A shriek escaped the now giant ball of fire that was the Sorcerer; however, he didn't remain motionless, instead, he sprinted towards Arturo. “FOR GRAYBOI!” He would attempt to tackle the Half Elf and take him down with him. @Opaquely Translucent & @Witches Brew
  19. Arturo was successful with his avoidance tactic, tucking his arm close to his chest would prevent it from being severed at the wrist, but it wouldn't protect it altogether. The Lizard's blade bit into Arturo's vambrace, chopping through the leather material and then it met flesh, maybe even bone if the Half Elf's timing was off. If not tended to in a timely fashion, it could prove to be somewhat problematic. The Lizard wasn't picky, his intention was to inflict pain and he had certainly accomplished that, Arturo would feel it once his adrenaline wore off. It decided to cut its losses, as soon as he didn't hear the plop of the Half Elf's hand hit the ground, he tactfully retreated. Back peddling away from his opponent to create just enough distance to avoid any retaliation, which Arturo attempted immediately after nearly having his hand severed. “Nice trys softsk---,” His attempt at adding insult to injury was cut off as an arrow struck him. Mythandriel's shot had landed, thanks to her precise aim and timing, the lizardman never saw it coming or had any indication from his partner that he had lost the Elf's attention. His back peddling came to an abrupt stop as he sought the arrow embedded in his throat, but it was no use, even if he had managed to pull it free the blood loss would further lessen what time he had left. “Goods jobs yous dumb robe wearings scaleboi..” It then collapsed forward, face first into the dirt with an oomph. Dust and dirt billowed around him just to soak into the blood that likely flowed freely from his wound. “Uh-ohs..” The Sorcerer added as he watched his comrade fall to the ground, he now had to make a very important decision. He could either hold his ground and continue fighting, where he would end up just like his accomplice, or he could retreat and face Zanzarog's wrath for failing. Neither sounded like a good decision, but one outweighed the other. “Diesdiesdies!” He apparently made his decision as his hand ignited once more just to throw it in Arturo's general direction. His accuracy wasn't phenomenal by any means, but the explosion would be enough, he didn't have to hit the Half Elf directly for it to be harmful. He was also the only visible target, Mythandriel's position was still unknown to him and he didn't have time to look for her. @Opaquely Translucent & @Witches Brew
  20. Arturo was a glutton for punishment; even with his equipment practically ruined, he still came back for more, angrier too. This impressed the Lizardman, even he wasn't that confident. Arturo was proving to be quite the combatant, if only there were more of his kind here to witness their encounter. His opponent closed their distance once more; however, this time his tactic was much different, his positioning was low and he aimed to thrust what remained of his weapon. The Lizardman barely had enough time to react, but he knew that if he held his ground it would end badly for him. So instead, his left foot slid away and his hips and torso rotated. In one swift motion, his sword came down like a guillotine, Arturo's closest arm was his target, more specifically his wrist. He aimed to cleanly remove Arturo's hand and narrowly avoid the thrusting motion he intended. Whether he hit or not, the Lizard backed away from the Half Elf, hissing as he did so. Mythandriel had successfully avoided the Sorcerer's fireball, leaping from the branch she was on and landing in an adjacent tree. Due to the explosion and the excitement, her opponent hadn't managed to track her movements, so her current position was unknown. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage, her teammate wasn't fairing too well, despite his commitment to violence. "Ouchies!" The Sorcerer shouted as he sought the embedded arrow, with a bit of force it was ripped from his chest and tossed aside. Blood spewed from the wound and stained his robe. "Yous pays for thats! I'ms tellings Grayboy on yous!" Grayboy? --- "Constans?" Zanzarog spit. These strange creatures somehow knew of Coth's fearless leader. His eyes darted around, doing a quick headcount of how many approached him. They were armed and judging by the looks they were giving him, hostile. Sighing heavily, the Half Orc tightened the grip he had on his halberd and waited for them to take a couple more steps. Shnnk! Taking a step forward, the halberd came down, blade first and bit into one of their necks. His arms twisted, forcing the blade to transition sideways and with all of his might he forced it to the right. Due to the blade being lodged in the monsters neck, it carried the presumably lifeless torso with it and sent it colliding into the closest advancing teammate, knocking it over. "How dare you speak that name..." There were two left, despite Zanzarog being distracted, they stopped in their tracks. How effortlessly their comrades were dispatched probably had something to do with that decision. With a strong yank, the halberd was retrieved, cleaving through the creatures neck and covering those close to it in blood. "What's wrong?" Zanzarog cackled, turning his weapon on those that didn't come forth. "I'm not done with you yet." Taking another step forward, the halberd lunged, skewering one in the abdomen. Lifting it up off the ground, it would meet the ground as the Half Orc forcibly slammed it, his eyes then fell upon the lone survivor. "Tell me.. is your beloved Constans going to save you? Pray to him." Laughter could be heard echoing through the forest, truly mad, undeniable laughter. @Opaquely Translucent & @Witches Brew
  21. Arturo's effort hadn't gone unnoticed, before being swept from his feet the Half Elf decided to ditch his shield entirely and take hold of his club with both hands, swinging desperately as he fell backwards. The Lizardman was in the process of back peddling as the swing commenced, which created a small enough gap for the club to miss its mark, but it did connect with his shield with a clang. Surprisingly enough the Lizard wouldn't take advantage of his downed foe, instead, he waited for him to get back to his feet. Taking those moments to get back into position and prepare for another engagement. "Gets upsssss~" It hissed. Mythandriel on the other hand, was just full of surprises, she decided to stay in the tree as it hastily engulfed. Flames licked at her and threatened to singe her flesh, but she was dedicated to hitting her mark. That dedication paid off. An arrow struck the Sorcerer right in the chest, piercing its robe and managing to penetrate his scales, which forced yet another hiss. It obviously didn't feel too good. Mythandriel's successful attack also made the Lizard even angrier, so it prepared to throw another fireball at her. This time directly at her. If the burning tree didn't make her flee from her high ground, perhaps a fireball aimed in her general vicinity would. "Takes this!" He shouted as his hand ignited and he overhand threw the spell at her. She had time to avoid it, very little time, but time. If not, the force from the blow would likely knock her from the tree itself, on top of catching her clothes on fire. But that was probably the least of her worries, for her skin would also likely be drastically burned. --- Previously... Weeks had gone by without so much of a word from Zanzarog; whereas it had been against his will, all of the answers he had about his past were cleared up. Nisnav was behind it all, every memory, every motion, the Wizard was the puppeteer, pulling strings he had weaved and making the Half Orc dance. Zanzarog honestly couldn't tell the difference between what was factual and what Nisnav had fabricated, or if any of it was real to begin with. Whatever the case may have been, one thing was certain, Nisnav built the Half Orc to succeed where he had failed. Zanzarog's destiny was to oversee the inevitable downfall of Coth and all who inhabit it. But he wouldn't stop there, Zanzarog's intentions were far more malicious than that, the newfound Necromancer would see to it that anyone who praised or worshiped their false deity would renounce their religion entirely and raise the banner of the one true God, Nisnav. Zanzarog spent days on end being tortured, both mentally and physically. When Nisnav tired of tearing through his mind, he turned to instruments that the Half Orc never knew existed. Prodded with red hot pokers, carved with knifes, waterboarded, worked over past the point of shock. Nisnav aimed to kill Zanzarog's personality so that he could rebuild him into the monster he was intended to be. Torturing him until his mind and body became fragments of their former self. Zanzarog became nothing more than an animal, cries for help had been replaced with incoherent babbling and monstrous roars. Just when Zanzarog believed the torment had come to an end, the mending process began. Nisnav went back to work on his conscience, filling it with memories to mask the trauma and to mold him into the perfect successor. Zanzarog was no more, what stood in front of the Wizard was now the perfect solider. Emotionless, fearless and above all else... merciless. Yet for some reason unbeknownst to him, Nisnav kept his memories of Coth and his time spent with Mythandriel intact, perhaps a test of will? Would Zanzarog forsake those he loved in order to carry out his Master's orders? That much wasn't yet evident, only time would tell. "Oh?" --- "Conshanns?" @Opaquely Translucent & @Witches Brew
  22. “Aye, let's go outside.” With that being said, Zanzarog took hold of both Mythandriel and his bowl once more and nodded towards the front door. Once she headed towards the door, he was soon to follow, carefully balancing the bowls in his hands. He'd patiently wait for the front door to be opened and he'd hold it open with his nearest foot, allowing Mythandriel to exit and take a seat on the front porch. Zanzarog then carefully lowered himself into a sitting position next to her and handed off her bowl. Their presence caught the attention of Black Phillip, who bleeted in recognition of his Master and immediately closed his eyes with a huff. Zan would wait for Mythandriel to take a bit before he followed suit. “I hope it's as good as it was last time,” He chuckled. It had been awhile since they had it, but from what he remembered it was absolutely to die for. @Witches Brew
  23. "Sir, the town is bustling again, shall we---" --- "Open the gates!" Stephen's voice boomed across the camp and they hustled to follow his instruction. Once the barricades had been moved, they unlocked the gate and it opened once more with a little muscle. Peering inside the Guards could see that people were actually going back to their day to day lives, food carts were being resupplied, the Inn was open, Vice had done it. Laughing to themselves, they motioned for Stephen to take a look for himself. "I'll be damned. Take this news to Coth, tell them a friend by the name of Vice has put an end to the plague, tell them to gather a proper reward." --- "Yes sir!" With that, two guards took to horseback and rode off into the distance towards their capital. "Let's go find your Master." Stephen added right before entering the town, giving the pooch a chance to catch up. @Revvys @Vansin [Summary: A town outside of Coth caught a nasty virus, killing those who were left untreated for too long. A perimeter was set up around said town to stop the plagued from spreading said illness further. Vice was found in the forest and was convinced to help aid those infected in exchange for a reward. Vice then traveled into said town and prepared a concoction to cure the sickness. Town is reestablished and a reward is being prepared for him in Coth.]
  24. Black Phillip wasn't the only one exhausted; Zanzarog too rolled from the creature's back and found himself panting heavily in the underbrush, as he caught his breath the Springjack's past became apparent to the Half Orc in the form of a vision. Zan watched as Black Phillip's unfortunate past unveiled itself, despite the events leading up to his curse, the two of them were similar in a way. Their past haunted them and they lashed out at anything because of it. His intentions were not what the Springjack had presumed, he didn't wish to hurt the creature, but befriend him. Zanzarog laid there for a moment after the vision had ended and rolled toward the creature, a hand patted at his fur. "You'll live to see another day friend." His voice was calm. Transitioning into a sitting position, Zan's gaze never left the Springjack, just in the off chance that he decided to take advantage of his captor's winded state. "Why don't you come with me? I'll see to it that you're properly taken care of and together we'll cause a little mayhem in the process." Who knew if the creature could actually understand him or whether or not it actually cared what he spoke about if he could, but something told Zanzarog that the creature was lonely and companionship would steer him onto the right path. Little did both of them know, that path was exactly what the Half Orc had promised... Mayhem. @Spooky Mittens
  25. The Lizardman's hand would sneak up the handle of his sword and take hold of the guard, he then cranked it via turning his hand clockwise like a key, doing so would forcibly collapse Arturo's shield wielding arm outward. Then he spun, rotating his hips and pivoting on his rear leg, doing so forced his tail around and toward Arturo, more specifically, his knees. His goal was to trip the Half-Elf and force him face first into the dirt. An arrow whizzed by him, narrowly missing its target, the Lizardman wouldn't notice Mythandriel's positioning due to being locked in combat. But he would notice the arrow sticking out of the dirt as his spin concluded, which forced a hiss. Back peddling, his shield arm would raise to guard the upper portion of his body and his eyes darted around in an attempt to find whoever shot at him. He may not have seen her, but his companion certainly did. “NO FAIRS!” He shouted as he came hobbling out of his hiding spot in the brush. Mimicking the hand motion he made prior to the carriage catching fire, another flame sparked to life within his grasp and he threw it at the tree. He had no intention of hitting Mythandriel with it, for the tree itself was the target of his frustration. The fireball hit the trunk with a thud and flames immediately engulfed it. Mythandriel now had to make a decision, flee from her vantage point or risk catching fire along with the rest of the tree. @Witches Brew & @Opaquely Translucent
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