Edg3ofR3ason
Immortal
Champion of the Anvach Arena of Death
Contrary to popular opinion, 'I'm not dead yet!'
Posts: 340
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Post by Edg3ofR3ason on Jun 26, 2010 19:42:18 GMT -5
The quad of friends had been raising their mugs of ale in song to fallen comrades of battles past when the announcement of the next pair of combatants filled the stadium. From their private box they had a excellent vantage point to witness the event and to closely examine the style of both competitors. “More ale” yelled Togar above the rising noise of the enthusiastic crowd, “and a dozen of those Khorne Dogs” to the passing human with the concession tray around his neck. Breunor coughed and spat his ale out over the crowd at the thought of Togar consuming such “vile food”. Turning his attention once more to the battle just commencing he witnessed the elf reduce the over aggressive lizard to tomorrows ‘spécial du jour”. Silently, each in turn bowed their heads, praying to gods of battle for the ancient one to finally know the peace in death that he could not obtain in life. After about a minute they raised their heads high and looked at each other, wide grins appearing on all of their faces and thrust their mugs of ale together with a bang, bursting into song once more. Breunor cast a quick glance at Drizzt and saw that knowing look in his deep purple eyes. He had spotted something, he knew, and they would talk later, but for now, enjoy the moment. He grabbed a Khorne dog and without another thought bit off a hunk. “ Huh”, he thought, “should of known, tastes just like chicken.”
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Post by Jack Shrapnel on Jun 28, 2010 20:32:45 GMT -5
Lord Garon turned to his advisor and asked “what exactly is that thing doing?” “I’m not entirely sure my Lord”, was the puzzled reply, “I believe it’s mad” Thoaror Serpenthelm was sitting in the middle of the arena, with a large collection of every possible food that was being sold in or around the complex. He had surrounded himself with this bounty, as he and the three gnoblars who accompanied him feasted, sitting on the bloodstained arena floor. The huge ogre would gently feed the one gnoblar around his neck, stroking its head absently with his finger. The crowd was filing back inside the arena after the hour long intermission, jockeying for the prime seating. The sight of the tyrant behaving in this manner created some looks of shock, and nervous laughter. The horns sounded signalling the next match was about to begin. Shovelling another two handfuls of food into his gaping maw, Thoaror stood, stretched and belched. He hefted his enormous great weapon onto his shoulder as the gnoblars scurried around him, getting into fighting position – which for a gnoblar meant as hidden as possible. The Assassin Trax strode forward into the arena, cloak opening wide to reveal a deadly arsenal of weaponry. As he approached the Tyrant, he pulled a dripping blade from it’s sheath. A dozen paces away he stopped, readying himself for the signal to begin. Thoaror looked down at the puny creature before him. He had fought all manner of elves before, and none had been able to stand against him. Sure they were fast, and he always ended up with a dozen small cuts closing in on them. But once he did, he would crush them flat with ease. As last minute bets were taken, Trax couldn’t help but glance to the crowd, trying to discern his odds. He smiled as he heard that the crowd had bet on size to win this fight. Lord Garon announced in a loud clear voice “Begin” and immediately the tyrant began walking forward, saying “go ahead little one, let’s see what you can do”. Trax bowed before Thoaror and stated flatly, “As you wish”. With a speed which outmatched even the blademaster before him, Trax whirled in an arc in front of the tyrant, deftly moving to the side to avoid the clumsy arc of the creature’s great weapon, and ending up fully behind the ogre. “Come back here insect” Thoaror bellowed in frustration and turned around, hand reaching to his midsection where the two precise cuts had been made. What made the tyrant even more angry was that the elf had sheathed his sword and was slowly walking away from him. “I… said….” Thoaror growled. But his words seemed far away and echoing. He began to move towards the elf, but it was like walking through mud. He made only one step before crashing to the ground, crushing his gnoblar companions beneath his weight. “All too easy”, Trax chuckled, and walked off to collect his winnings. ----------------------------------- After battle thoughts: Venom sword + ASF + High WS = No ward save hurt the tyrant terribly... as once the assassin wounded twice, the toughness tests were pretty much impossible to make...
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Post by BewareOfTom on Jun 28, 2010 20:48:26 GMT -5
aw....... oh well never even played fantasy let alone build a character so it played out ok ;D
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Post by redshirt2375 on Jun 28, 2010 21:24:33 GMT -5
the silent kiss of death that was the trademark of an assassin. One cut was all it took to slay the most resilient of enemies.
Lok'khar had seen the likes of Trax many times, had even employed many of them during his attempted rise to power. He'd also been the target of more than he could count, but this made him smile for despite the many attempts he still lived. The assassin relied to much on his venoms and poisons. Against the unsuspecting, like the ogre, they meant a swift and sure death. But for one such as Lok'khar, the assassin's tricks would have little effect for he knew them well and knew that should he fail to find his mark the assassin had little hope of standing up to a trained warrior. Perhaps, once he'd won his match, he should seek out this Trax and see if they couldn't work together to take this tournament. Of course since only one could come out alive, it would be Lok'khar himself. A former lord was still worth more than a lowly assassin, and Lok'khar had a much stronger reason to come out as the victor here....vengeance always trumped greed.
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Edg3ofR3ason
Immortal
Champion of the Anvach Arena of Death
Contrary to popular opinion, 'I'm not dead yet!'
Posts: 340
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Post by Edg3ofR3ason on Jun 28, 2010 22:10:09 GMT -5
Drizzt didn’t even bother to watch the melee for he knew the outcome was inevitable. He’d left his friends to go and collect their sizable winnings. Only a fool would bet against one of his own kind in a one on one match. Like Drizzt, this merc had been born of the assassin creed, a life only a dark elf of Menzoberranzan can relate to. As skilled as this Trax seemed to be, the reliance on poisons Drizzt knew, often instils a false sense of superiority and confidence. Better to inflict ‘death by a thousand cuts’ then by a single poisoned wound. Where is the fun in that? Collecting the winnings Drizzt made his way back to the drinking trio, as there was much to discuss. This next round was shaping up to be interesting, for unless the Bret succeeded in his challenge, they would be pitted against…well… an elf. Not that it really mattered, thought Drizzt. He smiled to himself as he opened to door and see ing his "comrades in arms" passed out on the floor. Yes, there was MUCH to discuss.
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Post by Jack Shrapnel on Jul 1, 2010 16:11:26 GMT -5
Lok'Khar Diavilios and Lord Jacques LaFleur of Mousillon stared at one another across the arena. The crowd was a mass of yelling, cheering, booing and betting. Lok’khar turned from his foe for a moment to sneer at the throng, who were generally booing the dark elf. “Wait your turn pigs” he spat in their direction. Lord Lafleur steadied his horse as he surveyed his circumstances. The elf would be quick, as all are of his kind; however they were often impetuous creatures, full of rage. He looked to the balcony where the Lord of this city would signal the charge. As if on cue, Lord Garon and his mysterious companion came to the edge of the balcony. Lord Garon in a loud clear voice called the names of the combatants. Lafleur gave the customary bow to Lord Garon. Diavilios merely continued to stare at the Bret, his hands clenching and unclenching as he breathed deeply to steady the battle thirst. Lord Garon signalled the battle started, and Lord Jacques LaFleur reared his horse up, and rode forward at breakneck speed, ready to undo this foul creature. The first pass saw LaFleur’s blade find it’s mark in the dark elf’s shoulder. Lok’khar had rolled to the side too slowly to avoid the hit, however the impact was significantly lessened. The Brettonian’s second strike, meant to sever the head of his opponent, was blocked. As this strike was parried, a foul black amulet crackled with dark lightning, that reached out to drain the very life force of Lafleur. The Lord of Mousillon clutched involuntarily at his chest, and Lok’Khar attempted to seize the opportunity by striking a blow into the back of LaFleur as he rode past. There was sufficient space to take a moment to inspect the damage. LaFleur’s chest hurt, but the throbbing was subsiding. He could feel the seep of blood under his armor in his back shoulder. Worse, his steed was also injured in the pass. Lord Jacques LaFleur dismounted, his anger rising as he strode towards the dark elf. Lok’khar also inspected his wounded shoulder. It would heal eventually and shouldn’t slow him down too significantly, although the great weapon would be difficult to wield with as much force. The jeering of the crowd only fuelled his anger more. He would have his revenge. This Bret would not stop that from happening. Lord Lafleur advanced upon Lok’Khar, deftly swinging his sword at unexpected angles, and with a speed and power that was forcing the dark elf back with each swing. Diavilios was able to avoid all but one of these strikes, that sliced across his chest before he could get back out of the way. He wasn’t fast enough to avoid it altogether, but his speed did prevent this cut from being the end of him. More blood flowed down Lok’Khar’s body, and he felt the arena spin around him. Shouting in rage, he threw himself forward, spending all of his remaining energy and focus in driving his great sword down upon the Bretonnian. Lafleur’s shield was torn from his arm in the fury of this attack, and Lok’Khar drove his sword into the chestplate of Lafleur’s armour, piercing the steel through the front and out the back. Both combatants fell together in a heap, covered in one another’s slick blood. “Well done elf,” Jacques gasped, and breathed his last. Eyes open as his consciousness left him, seeing the cheering crowd, although he could no longer hear them. Lok’Khar struggled to his feet, and sheathed his sword. Although the arena was still spinning, and his breathing was coming in rasps, he would walk out of this place on his own. --------------------- After battle thoughts: This fight was very close and could have gone either way... the amulet was certainly a game changer in this battle.... Lok'Khar left the arena with only one wound left, so it was certainly close! Those combatants who survived the first round can add some fluff now if they like! If you are intending to challenge someone, this would be the only round you can do so (as there will only be two of you left for the final round!)... feel free to have any "bad blood" occur outside of the arena... which may lead to you being paired with someone second round...
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Post by redshirt2375 on Jul 1, 2010 17:22:54 GMT -5
the pain was intense, but exquisite...pain was something he'd come to know very well, like an old friend. A friend who could keep you aware when you wanted to lay down and rest. A friend who let you reminded you that you'd won and your enemy was dead. Pain was life. Pain was almost everything to him, but his need for vengeance was so much more, so much stronger.
Lok'khar stumbled from from the arena, the boos of the crowd silenced by his victory. The human had proved to be much more skilled than expected. He'd not relied on the usual tactics of his kind. Lok'khar's path to revenge had almost ended before it began. He couldn't allow this to happen again. He was one step closer to his life's goal. He couldn't let anything stand in his way, not even death.
the pain was all he'd had for so long that he welcomed it. It helped to fuel his rage, to feed his insatiable lust for revenge against the Lord he'd turned against. The Lord who sent him to this retched place to begin with. One step closer....one more yet to be taken...
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venom
Scarab swarm
Posts: 7
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Post by venom on Jul 1, 2010 21:40:45 GMT -5
Trax sat counting his winning. The battle had be boring but it had got his a lot of coin. The stupid spectators had saw the sheer size of his opponent and all bet against him. He didn't even know if there was a price on the beasts head, but he had bribed a guard or two to get any parts that could get him a reward if there was any to get. It would start to get fun from now on. He knew the high elf would be he most exciting fight, he too had killed his opponent easily. Trax thought to him self if the opponents were reversed and he had gotten the lizard and the high elf the monster is the high elf would still be standing.
He thought if he should challenge anyone this round. Hmm his winnings would be less he had put as much at the usual people would allow him to bet on him self for the next round but he would not get a much this time cause many would be betting on him now. He had to weigh everything before he challenge anyone. Their cost was important in that regard he would have to see what countries and other such want them dead. Now in terms of how exciting they would be fight that's a different story. It would go from the swordmaster as most exciting to the dwarf least exciting.
He decided he would not challenge anyone. If any of them were suicidal they could challenge him. He thought he would sit back and relax till his next fight. Maybe find anouther bar wench, or two.
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Post by Jack Shrapnel on Jul 5, 2010 6:47:22 GMT -5
Dyendra handed Lord Garon the parchment with the next round of matches. He gave these a cursory read and asked her how she came up with these selections.
She smiled and said that the matches were given to her in a dream. Dyendra had a far away look in her eyes for a moment, then snapped back to her sharp focus, the smile turning cruel.
"These battles will be the perfect display for your new arena Lord Garon... trust me".
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Runners were sent to bring the heroes to the arena for the announcement of the next day's match. All attended promptly, even the bruised and battered Diavilios, who despite his injuries a few hours earlier, was already walking without any noticeable problem.
Lord Garon came to his balcony to address the combatants in the arena, and the crowd which had gathered to hear the next matches (and decide on whom to bet!)
Lord Breunor Battlehammer vs. The Assassin Trax Blademaster Kelethan vs. Lok'Khar Diavilios
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Post by redshirt2375 on Jul 5, 2010 8:21:47 GMT -5
the true test was to come sooner than expected. His possible death suddenly looming before him when he'd expected to face it much later. The fates had turned upon him once again. Or were the fates ignorant of these events...
Lok'khar cursed to himself when the matches were announced. He'd had to spend more time than expected having his wounds tended to and so had missed his chance to pick his opponent for this round.
He had thought he'd be facing the High Elf for the prize, a spectical these pathetic humans would have killed each other for a chance to see, but it was as if something had intervined and brought about this fight much sooner than anticipated. He sensed the hand of someone very powerful in this unexpected turn. Could it be that his victory in the first round had made his enemies take a subtle hand in bringing about his downfall? Surely they knew that of all the combatants, the Blademaster was the one true threat to him and wished his death much more strongly than he would have thought.
Lok'khar smiled to himself as he thought about how much his victory in this next fight would anger the Witch King and his meddlesome mother. With a shake of his head he reminded himself, once again, to think only of the present and not let thoughts of the future cloud his mind. He would have to be at his best if he hoped to come out of this fight alive.
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Post by Jack Shrapnel on Jul 13, 2010 8:20:35 GMT -5
Lord Battlehammer stood with his loyal shieldbearers stoic in the middle of the arena. They may have spent the previous evening drinking themselves to oblivion, however their sturdy dwarf constitution made it as it they were fully rested and alert. The dark elf assassin strode into the arena, gliding more than walking, no sound as he stalked forwards. Trax had bet everything on himself, having to make an extended wager at poor odds due to his superb performance in the previous fight. He tried to remind himself to not finish this fight so quickly this time… it hurt his profits to be thought of as the superior fighter.
Lord Battlehammer was raised high on his shield, an imposing sight with his runed weapon held aloft. The combatants began to move towards one another, the dwarf slowly and the assassin moving lithe and low.
Bruenor had watched the assassin’s previous fight and knew to expect great speed, therefore he had his shield readied even more than his axe. Trax leapt impossibly high to strike with his envenomed sword in a flurry so fast that the crowd gasped aloud. Bruenor was ready however, and his shield was raised in time to blunt the force of these attacks, and the poison sprayed harmlessly across gromril. The great shield fully covering his face and vital areas.
Bruenor had a surprise of his own in store, and as he felt the blade scrape across his shield, he launched himself forward off of the shieldbearers, slamming Trax to the ground beneath him. The dark elf felt his breath leave him as he hit, and the enormous weight of the armored dwarf on top of him.
“How do those two even carry him around?” he wondered as he rolled out of Bruenor’s grasp and to his feet in one fluid motion. The dwarf lord was to his feet and the runes on his axe flared to life. He swept the weapon in an arc towards the assassin’s head, which Trax easily crouched under, smiling at the clumsy attempt to decapitate him. The smile left Trax’s face however as he realized a split second too late that Bruenor had feinted the strike, and reversed course, pulling the runed axe downward in a devastating blow that caught Trax square in the shoulder, severing his left arm and a good sized section of his torso with it.
Trax felt his legs fold beneath him. “Impossible” he gasped. He knelt there, incredulous in a pool of his own blood, hardly able to believe it, even as Lord Battlehammer’s axe came down a second time, ending his life.
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Post by redshirt2375 on Jul 13, 2010 12:27:03 GMT -5
Death had finally caught up to one of it's silent dealers. Stealth, guile, nasty surprises for unprepared and unprotected victims; these meant nothing on the field of battle.
As he had expected, Lok'khar watched as the assassin fell the axe of the dwarf lord. The assassin's reliance on his secret venoms and his extrordinary speed meant nothing to the mountain-like defence of a dwarf.
Thinking forward to his coming match, Lok'khar hoped that his opponent wouldn't be as prepared as the dwarf had been for his match, but he held little faith in that being so.
The High Elf was a blademaster, on of the greatest opponents anyone could ever face in the known world. His speed and skill far out did Lok'khar's.
But perhaps, like the dwarf, Lok'khar's driving need for vengence would be enough to hold off his opponent. Maybe the Gods would see that his need was far greater than that of his opponent and they would grant him the strength and endurance to survive yet again.
a vicious, seductive laugh whispers in his ear, as though coming from a great distance, accompanied by a sudden chill gust of air. His doubts and fears beginning to erode at his determination. The fires of hate and anger flare and burn away all but the need for vengence. He is prepared. He is ready to face Death and spit in it's face yet again
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Post by Jack Shrapnel on Jul 15, 2010 11:19:09 GMT -5
Lok’khar paced in the arena, anger rising at every passing moment. The high elf was standing there, calmly looking at him with an air of contempt. The signal had yet to be given however. Lok’khar looked for the hundredth time up to the balcony area. Lord Garon was there, the crowd buzzed with anticipation. Yet they were not given the order to begin. Blademaster Kelethan observed everything around him, while appearing to be nonchalant. There was no reason to get agitated as this dark elf, all would transpire as his destiny warranted. Kelethan glanced up as the curtains parted behind the balcony and a slender, dangerous looking woman came up beside Lord Garon and took her place in the adjacent seat. Lord Garon rose immediately, and called out to signal the beginning of the match.
Lok’khar immediately advanced, breathing heavily already, not out of exertion, but from the flowing hatred running through him. Kelethan appeared almost casual as Lok’khar came forward, pulling his own weapon and waiting for the attack.
Lok’khar raised his sword to attack but the blademaster was faster, striking at the dreadlord across his chest under his raised arms. Kelethan’s amulet flared to life and he struck again and again, each strike appearing deadly accurate. At the last moment of every mortal strike, Lok’khar’s movements were just enough to cause the blows to glance off armor, or be deflected harmlessly away. The black tailman of the dark elf oozed black smoke which enveloped the high elf when Lok’khar closed.
Kelethan choked on the smoke, which appeared to cling to his life force moreso than invade his lungs, but still stole his breath away. Lok’khar brought his weapon down with a scream of rage, hammering again and again at the blademaster. Lok’khar was nearly blind with anger, seeing nothing but his hated foe, hearing nothing but the clang of weapons clashing. The flood of attacks were being blocked one by one, but Kelethan was being pressed backwards by the force of the strikes. Lok’Khar’s blade hit home past the Kelethan’s defenses, striking a crippling blow to the blademaster’s arm, as the high elf attempted to reverse his adversary’s momentum by twisting to the side and knocking him off balance, following up by throwing the dark elf to the ground.
Lok’khar was to his feet in an instant, seething rage on his face. Kelethan was clutching at his chest however, staggering backwards as the talisman of Loec collected its due. It did not care for Kelethan’s whispered protests, or the advancing enemy. It was time for the blademaster’s debt to be paid, and the talisman would not be denied.
Kelethan fell to the arena floor as the crowd roared. He had at least denied his enemy the killing strike, and it was his own destiny that would be fulfilled, and his debt paid… not the blind vengeance of his enemy. Lok’khar fell upon the dying high elf and slashed again and again with his sword, cutting the lifeless body to ribbons and rendering the arena floor to a gore strewn abattoir.
Lord Garon was watching the match intently, and was surprised to hear the normally implacable Dyendra exhale at the end, in what appeared to be… relief?
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Post by redshirt2375 on Jul 15, 2010 12:07:07 GMT -5
an ancient vengence has been saited, an young one yet to be achieved. The blood of his enemy a cooling touch to his heated rage. The pieces of the broken body like a map showing him the path to his final victory. The Fates had deemed his cause the worthy one....
The red haze finally cleared from Lok'khar's vision, his racing heart slowing to a more controlled tempo. He took a deep, steading breath and slowly exhaled. He looked down at what had once been the body of the High Elf Blademaster. The was very little that could be deemed recognizable. He'd managed to not only defeat his opponent, but come out untouched.
Could it be that his enemies, if they influenced this match, had just gambled and lost? Was his victory something they had not anticipated? Or had the Fates spoken and chosen him and his quest for vengence as the most worthy?
No, he couldn't lose focus now. He still had one more fight to win before he could finally begin walking his ultimate path to vengence. He had one more match to win before he could begin his quest to slay the Witch King once and for all, and claim ruleship for himself.
With a final glance down at the remains of his victim, Lok'khar turned and walked from the Arena to await the annoucement of the final match. He began replaying the matches the dwarf lord had faught, and seeking a weakness he could exploit to assure his victory.
One more step taken on the path. One more obstacle over come. One step in many, many more to come...
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Edg3ofR3ason
Immortal
Champion of the Anvach Arena of Death
Contrary to popular opinion, 'I'm not dead yet!'
Posts: 340
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Post by Edg3ofR3ason on Jul 15, 2010 23:20:17 GMT -5
Breunor, Togar and Wulfgar watched in silence as the two Elf combatants laid out their exhaustive attacks upon each other. Breunor shock his head in wonder as to why High Elf lord would choose that particular talisman, as its magic bordered on that of the dark side rather then the purer white magic of the High Elves. Ah, well, he thought, little could be done know for the unfortunate elf. Breunor turned to his friends and raised his large fine mug of Bugman’s brew and said loudly; “here’s to the fallen; to those of or’ kin that’ve brought honour to the house of Battlehammer; may we share in their strength and add to their glory!” and they downed their drinks. “Time to suit up lads.” “Let’s go git ourselves a dark elf”.
Drizzt had watched the encounter with a small amount of interest. Certainly he knew that the outcome of the fight was all but assured, being in favour of his dark elf countryman. As Drizzt replayed the battle in his mind he became aware of another’s presence within the room and in looking up came face to face with another dark elf. “Greetings” said the stranger, “I am Grikgor Maklir and have a message for you from Malekith, the Witch King”. Drizzt smiled to himself as he listened to the emissary explain the Witch King’s proposal. “Come”, said Drizzt when he had finished listening, ‘there is someone I wish you to meet and there is much to discuss”. Yes, thought Drizzt, there is much to discuss, as he slowly placed a hand on his trusty scimitar.
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