It's been forever since we did anything... you up for a battle? I saw you had at least 3 or more friggin characters posted in the Profiles thread and thought, "Gawd... it's been too long."
Serra, Blaze and Sar. That's all. I'd love to go a few rounds with ya, Strike.
Allright. Forgive me, my style is probably rustier'n a 57 Chevy that's been left out in the snow for a couple decades. With luck, it'll improve as we move forward.
Hmm... do you mind choosing the arena? The introduction I have in mind would require your character being on scene already.. or at least, my knowing what character you are using.
In this world, there are things that go unseen. Not because of ignorance, nor even the gods; simply speaking, it was just meant to happen that way. These events in question are not logical, repeatable, nor are they observable. The time in which they occur fluctuates, the place always consumed by destruction, and the goal is mortal conflict. How it happens, why it happens, and what spurs these events? None of it matters to me. The all-consuming thought to me now is simply such: what fun this will be.
Time is frozen here, no forward nor backwards outside of the sphere. Only the epicenter of the gigantic, planet-crushing explosion is left within the spectrum of motion; and even surrounded in an inferno more potent than the sun, inside this sphere of time-lock, there is nothing but ground zero. The soil is charred barely, though the crater has already formed, melting the surrounding rock into jagged glass. This gate between worlds must have been erected at the exact moment of eruption, but just before it sunk into the planet and erased it from existence. It seems that the events outside, however, weren't stopped quite as quickly; the one's who lived here most likely obliterated by the heat of existence.
"Always filled with destruction, surrounded by an indestructible barrier... at least there are no extra causalities through this method," Sar grinned to himself.
Standing at the highest peak of the crater, Sar took in the cool night air. Despite the chaos, it was always peaceful... just before the storm... just before the storm more destructive than the one outside.
[COLOR="lightGreen"]Sar's grin fell pathetically as his gaze found Strike, for the first time in years. But it was not Strike as he had remembered him. His hair was aglow, brilliant white and floating about as if under-water. His eyes shon blood red, his woe-stricken face lined with the signs of premature age, as tears dissolved upon his hot cheek, vaporizing.
[COLOR="Navy"]
"So many people died..."[/COLOR]
Locked in a memory long past, Strike did not see Sar, only the ones responsible for this trajedy. This had been his planet, and they were now here, in an explosion that happened over two hundred years ago, locked in a timeless state to revisit Strike's past.
Anger boiled within the man, once named Samuel Warren, now a chosen warrior for heaven known abroad as Strike. All attempts to smother the flame of fury within himself were helpless before they were begun, and only fed it further, and now locked onto a target with which everything could come to an end, Strike lunged.
An iron fist rocked Sar before anyone could say hello. Black flooded his vision as his temple took a hit that might have bent the strongest steel, but only surprised the great warrior. However, having been so utterly confused and taken unawares, the blow knocked him off his feet and into the earth, creating a trench in the barren charred glass-coated ground ten paces long before he slid to a stop.[/COLOR]
Forgive me Lun, things came up and I only had time to make sure the quest was running... but if you're still up for it, I'm ready.
His hand slammed, palm vaulting him into an immediate back-flip. His toes touched, body still sliding, but not nearly enough time. Already behind him, Strike hurled the force of his trunk into a downward knee-strike. Sar dodged, but barely. The force shaved up against Sar's midsection, his clothes fluttering violently.
Curling his fist, Sar launched a devastating upper-cut into Strike's open stomach; and though it would've broken titanium in two, neatly cut-pieces, Strike didn't waver a step. His body tilted, arm raised, and down came another furious blow. Sar faltered inward toward Strike's person, barely escaping another scathing attack; but it gave him just enough leverage to latch onto Strike's arm and drop his center of gravity under his aggressor's. Hurling Strike's mass into the air before him, Sar channeled a surge of life energy into his grounded leg.
Strike, already noticing the movement of his opponent, began to shift his body mid-air, but to no avail. It struck in the same location as Sar's fist, and this too would've cleanly cut titanium into two pieces... and then erupted into liquid form.
The bones in his torso shifted, organs crushing together as his body curled to the shape of the force. And when his body took flight, the air itself screamed in agony. He hit the barrier wall hard, a ripple of amethyst forced away from him like a pebble breaking the surface of water. Though the outside was locked in place, the heat of existence could still be tasted as it clutched the walls of pure gravity.
And Sar made sure that Strike could recognize the flavor that ebbed against their encasing. Sar's knee connected at the fulcrum of his nemesis' sternum; a running blow delivered from nearly fifty feet away. Strike's face changed naught, the same anguished face traced upon him when he first appeared, but the face of the barrier gave way with a cackle of lightning-based energy that licked at the two warriors. It caved partially, bending outward with the force of Sar's knee, and the heat melded its way through the ninety-meter thick, letting only one-hundredth of its fury dampen Strike's back.
OoC: OOOOH STRIIIIKE. We've still got this puppy waiting and active. You've had me here tapping my foot awhile, now.
The jarring of otherworldly energies cut Strike deeply, licking against the edges of his consciousness, bringing him sharply into a state of clarity. He saw and recognized Sar for who he was, and his eyes widened in horror.
"Sar... I'm sick..."
Strike jolted and writhed, keeling over, holding his stomach as if about ready to puke. Trying his best not to be sickened, Sar reflected; 'What kind of disease could effect an angel?'
Strike looked up, his eyes meeting Sar's in an intense flash of fire. He then rocketed forward, flames marking the path behind him, as he sunk an elbow deep into Sar's gut. Instantaneously, Strike snapped his fist into Sar's face, the double-blow from his powerful arm splaying Sar upon the ground.
"I'm only half-immortal... I'm troubled in spirit, my friend... too many years, too many ages... too much death. Ah, yes... death."
The same pained expression appeared on Strike's face once more, and Sar feared lest Strike lose his mind... permanently.
"SAR! I'm fading... only pain seems to bring clarity. I beg you, friend... bring me salvation... BRING ME PAIN!!!"
OOC: Not as good as it might have been, but I wanted a purpose for fighting that would mirror my writing... and I respond best to painful attacks. =)
It makes me wonder what year it is now. What place in time do we occupy, one so dear and horrifying to knock Strike to the very brink of sanity? Strike remembers my face, he knows who I am. But saying so much truly means near nothing between immortals.
Is this sometime in the far future, a time in which I have yet to see? Or thousands of years ago, when Strike and I were mere orphans of eras that would never be heard from again? It is even possible, though unlikely, that this is Strike's current trial. I have been away for far too long, caught in the tidal push of a death wish. But it is only natural to yearn for what you cannot have. Even after so long, the warriors of this game, a sport which manipulates time, space, and power, have fallen victim to my blade. Few have stood against my beast and yet walk the mortal plane.
But still, it seems so unnatural, this feeling of concern.
"Strike, for your sake, I hope the Fates placed you before me in keen knowledge."
Dashing away the blood from his cheek, Sar leaned to a crouch. "Because if they didn't," he continued, raising himself to a defiant stand, "...they've thrown your life away."
"You'll wake up from this, even if I have to force you."
You can't help them now, not anymore. They're dead, and you're restrained. Even so, in that state, you could do nothing to save them. Let's worry about you then, shall we Strike?
[color=black]Conviction flooded Sar, and the moment his palm touched the hilt of his rusted sword, so too did that conviction flow into it. S
OOC: I understand completely if you ignore my revival of this topic. However, that post is too good to leave alone. I'm SO ready to write a propor reply right now, but I've just got one question. The rest of your post, I get. But the end, your sword apparently transformed into a lance, which I also get. But are you currently attacking me with it? I wouldn't have thought so from just reading it, but you wrote, "Don't block it". Not being of that whole "orthadox" thing that came along one day when my back was turned, if you're attacking me with a lance, better impale me with it before leaving off. I can do more with that then an open-ended post. (without having to be afraid of being "cheap")
OoC: It's called Pizaz Strike, heh. It's an open-ended attack that you can deal with as you like, for fluidness of the fight itself. My strikes have been done, the last attack is more progression. It's like blocking and parrying, but on a higher level. I'm leaving it to you, you can block if you like too, just keep in mind its a powerful attack.
OOC: Allright then. I'd like to get things cooking. As for me, I'm in the mood for first-person again... it's been too long. =)
[COLOR="Navy"]My head exploded into a blurred vision of white as I dodge-rolled to the side and got side-swiped in the cranium. Great. Best I return the favor, and give myself time to find my bearings. I emitted a pulse. Okay, an explosion would be more accurate - class-A beings like us emit a pulse and it levels skyscrapers, so you do the math. The outcome was Sar flying backward all pell-mell like you'd just pitched your rag doll into a classic home-run swing. Around me the ground shifted and compacted into a large crater from the force.
Messy, but it'd do. I knew the concussive force, though enough to put a new face on the moon, would have been little more than a surprise for Sar, but it gave me what I needed. Flames exploded into being around my entire body. I was instantly engulfed, but at the same time changed. If you had been standing there at the time, which is highly improbable given the recent explosion, you would have seen that I was still the same shape, same clothes, same devilishly handsome expression - but it seemed like the matter of my flesh had adjusted and become one with the fire... the essence of fire itself.
In one hand I clutched a steadily waxing ball of molten napalm, curled in close to my stomach. It began small, like a small orange golf ball, and grew from there. I crouched slightly and lunged from the ground, rocketed into the sky. A jet of flame burst from my feet, propelling me horizontally in order to catch up with Sar, who was just regaining his senses and twisting mid-air to prevent a hard landing. Unfortunately for him, I had other plans.
Before he could maneuver around his large clumsy lance, I was inside it's reach. And before he could ditch the stick and plant a solid one on my nose like a sensible fighter would, and no doubtless he would have done, my fist rocketed against his cranium with all the destructive force of... well... is there really a point in measuring these things anymore? I'm a demi-*** of incredible strength, much like anyone you read about on these boards. I had behind my punch all the propulsion of my lovely little "rocketeer" maneuver, as well as a mean little winding-up trick that would send your usual bully crying home to mom no matter your size or braun - if he was still awake after. Once again, do the math - it must have hurt.
But it didn't stop here. Remember that nice little napalm I was cooking up? Well now it'd swollen nice and large like a juicy, basket-ball sized mini-sun. It twisted and churned, this nice planet-sized inferno compacted nicely in my palm and cradled against my person. It was high time it came out to play. As Sar's head rocketed backward and he gave me a wonderful view of his chin, I took out this little gift I'd had in preparation and let him have it.
The explosion was uncanny. The conflagration, had time continued in normal fashion, might have been seen from light-years away, as fire exploded into being and consumed everything it could within a several-mile radius. Since I shoved it into his high chest, near his neck, in a downward motion (toward the ground) I assumed he'd either been burnt to a crisp or wedged comfortably into a nice new crack in the ground, to serve as his grave.
Ah, but so much for small flights of fancy... This was a battle amongst demi-***s. He'd live. Though he'd be all the more worse for wear, I'm afraid. Still, I wouldn't have wanted it any other way I suppose... that would be boring.
I relished in the fire, breathing it like oxygen as I waited for the smoke to clear... and what it would reveal.[/COLOR]
bump...
Caustic fire erupted at point blank range, Sar hurled toward the battered ground like a comet, clouds of dust pierced by his form, their disfigured shape twisting to mend. The swooning taste of free-fall caressed him, even despite the violent wind sliding along his person.
The explosion had forced Sar away from the sweltering mass of napalm instantly, its intended form denied by the constructs of physics as it consumed oxygen at an accelerated rate, each breath of life fueling the tucked away inferno into an eruption of flame. It muddled existence with its titanic expulsion of power, mushroom cloud hindered only by the grand dome that encased them, the planet beneath them cutting further open and hurling its sediment like a viscous snow globe; a great divider, the torrent of power separating the two men's conflict like the hand of god itself, but not without taking its toll first. Hurled to the ground, Sar's upper body was littered with third degree burns from his neck to lower sternum; a strange concoction of blood and soot caking the damaged flesh, shirt nearly flayed completely off, singed tips whipping wildly upon his descent, hanging on only by his belt.
Tch. What a waste.
Head first, plummeting to the ground, Sar's eyes unclenched. Hefting his weight below him, Sar's boots crushed into bedrock with not even time to breath. Rock gave way, feet sinking into the earth's solid flesh, and in that same moment, the sky flattened. All dust and matter within the atmosphere, save Strike himself, was forced to the planet with massive gravitational power, the polluted skies made pure, devouring inferno suffocated mid-air.
An eerie calm, forced by totalitarian measure. But it wouldn't last, merely the audience's applause silenced by sudden movement, awe stricken faces awaiting the next move; surely it would happen, and no one could blink without risk.
And a blink was all it took; Sar reversed his plunge, skin still tingling with the sensation of pain as everything mirrored, wind flooding past yet again. But Strike saw nothing besides the muddled skies about him, their purity seemed to instantly thicken and liquify, atmosphere filled to the brim with anima. Not even the sonic boom erupting below him could be heard, Sar's form rocketing up at him with a massive jump, the torrent of power expelled leaving a larger crater than the one upon landing.
Sar's wings had unfolded, the entirety of the two men's encasement pressured outward with the shear volume of soul that poured from him. And that blink, the refocus of the eyes to detour a powerful refraction, was all it took for the upper hand to be shifted. Tyrfing's edge howled like a craven beast, and with only a slight tinge of pain, the blade's fang instantly sunk in and through flesh, tearing out the back of Strike's shoulder, rendering his left arm nearly useless as it skewered necessary tendons.
Relying on the blade's tension, Sar flung himself above his foe in the same movement, Strike's good arm ignoring the gush of blood and seeking to return the favor, grasping for Sar's fleeting form. Their stability wavered, Strike's ability to levitate losing its grip from both trauma and weight; but it mattered little, Sar's foot reached its peak and slew through air like an axe. Strike hunched forcefully just as Sar's drop-kick landed clear between his fifth and sixth vertebrae, hurling him into gravity's open arms while Tyrfing carved the gouge wider upon exit.
Strike plummeted, and Sar could do nothing but follow. They fell to the trodden ground like asteroids from space, friction beneath gorging itself red. And though Strike fell faster, pushed from behind by the inertia of impact, the second impact would be all the more devastating; clumsy polearm stretched before, it swelled with enough anima to be on par with a 25-megaton fission bomb, ready to detonate upon contact with Strike's sternum.
OoC: Took me a week. Hope you enjoy it, bud.
OOC: I enjoyed it so much I could kiss you right now. On the cheek or something... <.< ... >.> ... It's not like that, ok? Just very happy to read this most excellent reply. And now, for mine!
I say, what had I done to deserve this? Show up to an exploding planet to survey the damage, try to show a little justice to the culprit and bam, he skewers my arm and sends me flying backward so fast I couldn't breathe properly. Well, so much for chivalry, I must interject. All the same... though it took me a while (1) I soon realized the fact that I was pure fire was not helping anything at the moment. I was about to be snuffed out; overwhelmed with oxygen like a candle in a wind tunnel.
And with that ominous shining point at the end of Sar's lance... I was in a pickle, and no doubt about that. I made my decision, and changed form. At just about that time, we made impact with the ruddy earth. Another explosion, crater, blah blah blah, but this time it was not merely a shockwave of pure inertia alone, but a fulmination on par with a 25-megaton fission bomb. (2)
Many moments later, the dust began to clear, and radiation scattered like ash on the winds. There I stood, my left arm torn and limp, clothing frayed and ragged, but my sword-arm was held out, loosely poised and ready-to-strike. A glint of silver flashed in the smokey atmosphere, lit dramatically by patches of red molten matter which scattered across the crater in puddles. No light yet penetrated the cloud of smoke above.
Sar and I drew closer to one another, and the glint of silver revealed itself; a beautiful, simple katana of heavenly make, it's blade's keen edge never to wear nor break, the hilt guard ornately drawn in a pattern akin to it's name – The Order of the Rose. From it's hilt, on a six-inch silver chain, hung a glowing white crystal which pulsated in time with the beating of my heart.
We approached each other with no cat-like attitudes or preconceptions – no desires of intimidation or trickery. No, each of us strode with the heavy, purposeful gait of a warrior descending upon it's prey. A blue orb of energy (3) surrounded Strike, sweeping aside smoke and aerial debris as the two approached melee range.
Sar, no doubt having surveyed my lack of damage from the earlier detonation, wasted no time in making good his range benefit. He swung, the dangerously sharp edge threatening to cleave my skull in two – but to no avail. I matched him wit for wit, speed for speed, and power for power – and I'll tell you one thing, dear reader; A lance is not the best choice, in a match for speed.
I turned aside, the lance swiping harmlessly past. Sar's strong limbs made an immediate correction, reverting another blow upward and to the side – but I was already within the point's range. Applying simple leverage, I kicked at the shaft. In the middle of transitioning from one swing in a near-opposite direction, with me having the leverage benefit near the end of the shaft, there was nothing for it; the weapon clattered to the ground hopelessly.
The Order of the Rose struck, lashing out in a curved glint of silvery steel like lightning, skewering Sar at it's point. The sword's hilt met the flesh of his stomach, but no exit wound was visible. Sar shuddered in convulsions of pain at the receiving end of my blade, which had vanished like a cheap parlor trick instead of ripping its way out his back. Sar jerked, his right side completely going limp, as his nervous system on that side was severed.
You see, my sword is made of a metal not entirely like quicksilver – at my will, it will “melt” in order to take on any form I desire. And now, it's form was something similar to the blood vessels in Sar's abdomen. Sar sunk to his knees, and I knelt with him. Something dark fluttered in the back of my mind and heart, something cruel. This is sick, thought I to myself, twisted in the extreme – but he is another demi. Another demi, just like me. If he can't take this, he wouldn't have made it this far.
But if there's one thing I've learned about pain, it's that although a man may adjust to it enough to act despite it, it never fully leaves us. After all, pain comes with all the other human emotions, to rid of it is to rid of love, desire, and pleasure. Pain is part of us - and it was pain that racked his entire body and, most especially, his brain. The liquid metal swam through his flesh, attacking his organs, severing nerves, destroying blood veins. His mouth opened wide in a silent scream, his eyes dilated and widened like dinner-plates to my view, which was very close.
And yet I faltered. Before the metal made it's way to the brain, or indeed even the heart, I ceased this assault. As I tore out the blade of my beloved sword, it brought with it a few pounds of flesh, steaming from this fresh exposure, all the silver of my blade having been stretched out like the roots of a very stubborn weed. And, as the “roots” were pulled, so was much of the hot, bloody, fleshy "earth" between churned and unrecognizable.
The silver of my blade returned to it's preferred state, a katana. Flesh splattered to the floor, as Sar sank backward in despair. The Blue shield around me was a mere ghost now, almost completely gone – but it had done it's job.
“Get up,” [color=navy]thought I, “Get UP! Look at me, I've changed... my will to fight is returning, my confidence multiplying, and yet if you fall now it will all have been in vain. You've made the commitment; like punching through bricks, if you hold back now - it will only cause you more pain. Go through with your decision... get up! Get UP!”
“This is only the beginning!!!”[/color]
(1)I was whiting out, mentally – lack of oxygen to the brain, you could say.
(2)Deja' vu?
(3)Tetra-Elemental Shield, I once used to call it, back in the days when it was quite common for warriors to call out the name of each and every technique we used. Pure codswollop now; but alas, what a youngster I was back then. A fully-fledged noob in the flesh. Anyway it simply repelled any and all energies which might prove harmful to my person. A difficult spell, I keep one handy for just such occasions – though it takes me three months or so to be able to repeat the feat. In short, it was this technique that enabled Strike to ignore the recent blast.
[color=black]The beginning?
The Order of the Rose released Sar from its grasp, his body falling back as it ripped flesh from his body, a definitive scar if anything could be. But the sickening pain that would leave a normal man to shudder and his body fail him, left Sar eerily estranged, a contemplative grimace drawn upon his face.
No.
The pain was of no consequence, a fleeting moment of trial that had been undergone countless times in his ageless body. A feeling so minuscule that it could near literally be turned off... petty, it was petty. What gripped him, this feeling, it was fear. Not for his life, no, that was too simple. He beckoned death at every twist and turn, arms outstretched in welcome. In the back of his mind, he felt the incessant rapping grow louder, like grinding iron, he could hear the screech grow louder and more potent. He knew it would come, he knew...
Your personal apocalypse, that is what begins.
Survival, a basic instinct in all manner of creature existed beyond the mortal coil, a figure that permeated each creature to the center. Even when the core is broken down and reformed, it is still hinged at the fulcrum, ready to bore its way through layers of norms and emotions.
Fear for Strike is all that remained. Before, in years past, Sar had feared it, carnal ferocity lodged deep within his being. Now, he relied upon it – but at this time, in this place, it would be too much. Could Strike handle it? That is the very question; though this place sanctioned a battle of death, Sar hesitated in lieu of his friend. Too early to call upon this fiendish force locked away, but Strike's blade had come dangerously close to that edge. If Sar did not act now, break this game of war... then Strike surely would topple over that edge.
Tyrfing leapt from its sheathed position, the fang darting out as Sar lunged forward instantly from a grounded position, giving Strike not enough time to prepare, but just enough time to parry the piercing lunge. Knocking the blade to the right, Strike's face met the side of Sar's boot in a staggeringly bloody conflict. Whose blood, hard to discern as both boot and face were drenched. The spiral drop-kick floored Strike, but also jarred Sar as his weight landed flimsy and the amount of blood flowing from his wound left him dizzy. But of no consequence, more important matters remained.
Grounding himself, Sar hurled himself at S
[COLOR="navy"]Some people wait for the perfect moment to strike, like a snake. I don't. I just Strike. I guess that's why that became the name given me by the Council when I first became an official Angel. But with the blood running down my esophagus, I wasted no time; immediately I flinched my head backward, stretching my leg outward as I rolled my hips to the side, dealing a snapping side-kick right between Sar's legs. His blade withdrew.
I coughed and sputtered, blood infecting my spittle and welling down my front, staining what remained of my clothing. 'Useless', I thought, 'If I cannot breathe I cannot do anything'. A soft glow lit my right palm, which I applied to my throat. Now if you can imagine all this happening in high speeds, and I having slowed down the video frame in order to describe in detail the strategies of my movements, I was still resting my left foot before me from the snap-kick. Shifting my weight, I chambered my right leg, knee kissing my cheek, and snapped another kick directly backward, smashing heavily into Sar's unguarded forehead. (1)
Channeling my chi, I applied my glowing right palm to my adam's apple. The wound sealed, though quite a bit of pain remained. Some of the inner healing would take more than a spell to fix, but I could breathe without choking on my own blood, so that helped.
Tying off the spell in a manner that would accelerate the blood flow and healing in the area of my neck, I simultaneously jumped off my left leg as I landed my right food, throwing myself into a spinning motion. A flying roundhouse kick finished my combo, throwing Sar several paces from me, crunching powerfully into his right side. A few lower ribs shattered, but honestly not much space remained near where Strike stuck, being his abdomen. Without a powerful core, Sar's stance was about as powerful as a ken-doll. He fell over without ceremony.
Some blood remained in my lungs, so my voice was sputtery and hoarse.
[COLOR="lightGreen"]“I don't quite understand...”[/COLOR] and after a fit of coughing, I followed up, [COLOR="lightGreen"]“I don't understand many things. For starters; Sword to spear to sword to pike to sword, that style is so foreign to me, but I don't mind that really. New fighting styles keep me fresh, and bring me excitement. But there are other things that do bother me... why is this planet like this? Who did it? Was it a natural occurrence? I find that too difficult to believe, really; as a vengeance angel I feel the blood of many perished souls crying out to me, begging me for retribution. Because of what I am, I am compelled to share their pain, and to give them what they seek. If you are not the culprit here, who is? What happened here, can you tell me?”[/COLOR]
Sar raised his head and said nothing. His face was vague to me, either blank with pain or confusion or something I could not understand.
[COLOR="lightGreen"]“Tsk... My own personal apocalypse? No, that happened long ago, before I was ever an angel...”[/COLOR]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[COLOR="Red"]“BUT I HAVE YET TO HAVE MINE!!!!!”[/COLOR] roared a new voice, this one much deeper, throatier, and infinitely more menacing. The voice of Ba'alzamon, once a demon of aimless violence and chaos, now a servant in Strike's charge. Strike's eyes blazed, blood-red. Once again, his hair became translucent and lit with a strange inner-fire. His skin darkened and cracked with growing callous. The demon bellowed, from a core that went deeper than Strike's physical lungs, the sound renting the atmosphere with blood-lust.
The Order of the Rose was gone, and instead Ba'alzamon held two curved falchions; Wrath, and Judgement. The sharp, single-edge blades widened near the tip in kind of triangle before the point, making it the ultimate one-handed chopping weapon. The design of the weapon was clear – it was made to sever the head of the enemy from it's neck.
Each emitted exorbitant amounts of pressure, containing energies that strained against each other, begging for release. Ba'alzamon stood in Strike's flesh, his stance wide and open, his swords beckoning.
[COLOR="Red"]“Come on, dear fellow... Strike will not fight you while he is so uncertain. I suggest you answer his questions and clear up matters, although I personally would rather you didn't.”[/COLOR] At this, he licked one of the blades, at the sharp side, allowing the blood to run freely down his chin. [COLOR="Red"]“Because you see, I get to play with you until his mind is made up.”[/COLOR]
And with that, Ba'alzamon lunged, a gale of whirling blades descending upon Sar.
[/COLOR]
(1) He had doubled over, as most men would.
OoC: Finished! Question: Am I not articulating myself properly? I just wanted to know because there were some flaws in what I thought my post said to what you took from it. For instance, I didn't slit Strike's throat, S
OOC: Honestly yeah, it was hard to understand. It read like a poem, but was equally as hard to translate. And your shifting between two weapons that both seemed to be referred to as "blade" made it all the more confusing. But I just moved along, and did my best to go along with what I did understand. That's how I often deal with those kinds of issues.
OOC: OK, I haven't had the luck to get on to AIM when you're on. This is my understanding of the dialogue of our characters.
4 - Sar - We are standing on a planet that is in the middle of exploding, but caught in a time warp orb.
5 - Strike - Strike shows up and, as an angel of divine retribution, feels blood scream at him from the souls of the dead and must respond. Unable to handle all the pressure, he attacks the first person he sees, Sar, blinded to who he really is.
6 - Sar - Sar attacks.
8 - Strike - pain brings Strike to reality, and he recognizes Sar. He asks for help getting out of this, through the battle.
9 - Sar - Sar agrees to help, that or kill Strike in the process.
12 - Strike - The pain is helping, Strike is returning to himself... through the joy of battle.
14 - Sar attacks again.
15 - Strike is getting much better, but declares that if Sar lets up on the pressure now, all will be lost. The basic message was, "Keep it up!"
16 - Sar seems disgusted in Strike, and declares that this is nothing but Strike's personal apocalypse.
17 - Strike is confused, as an angel, he will not fight without purpose or for mere sport. He declares so, and withdraws, allowing a demon he has already conquered into his submission to come out and play in the mean time, until he has made up his mind.
18. Sar seems even more disgusted in Strike and says he no longer has a choice in the matter. Then he oversteps his bounds of power, squashes Ba'alzamon, and loses consciousness. A nameless consciousness takes over in the meantime, who will not speak or make eye contact.
I'm mainly confused on the part where Sar declares that this is Strike's personal apocalypse, and where he says he doesn't have a choice in the matter. Can you clear up to me what's happening drama-wise between our characters so I can form a good response? I've been thinking about it for quite awhile and it probably would have been easier to talk over AIM but I don't even know where to start this time without making this clear first.
OoC: Maybe I was too subtle.
[quote]The pain was of no consequence, a fleeting moment of trial that had been undergone countless times in his ageless body. A feeling so minuscule that it could near literally be turned off... petty, it was petty. What gripped him, this feeling, it was fear. Not for his life, no, that was too simple. He beckoned death at every twist and turn, arms outstretched in welcome. In the back of his mind, he felt the incessant rapping grow louder, like grinding iron, he could hear the screech grow louder and more potent. He knew it would come, he knew...
Your personal apocalypse, that is what begins.
Survival, a basic instinct in all manner of creature existed beyond the mortal coil, a figure that permeated each creature to the center. Even when the core is broken down and reformed, it is still hinged at the fulcrum, ready to bore its way through layers of norms and emotions.
This passage is supposed to say that Sar's body has a kind of damage counter, and even though The Order of the Rose did only a modicrum of damage in our grand scheme, by penetrating the body to such a degree, it made the counter rise significantly. The damage counter in Sar's body is something that he has no control over, and when he breaches a certain point, he loses consciousness and the Beast, as I like to call it, primordial urge of survival, takes over. The fluctuations in the air are a given sign of his upcoming transformation into his soul's ultimate potential within his given state. So this entire time, it hasn't been that Sar is disgusted, it's that he's been trying to warn Strike to stop the fight or he won't be able to control himself to stop the killing blow.
Aah, gotcha.
OOC: The beginning here is meant to be lighthearted in prose, therefore it's repetitiveness, and tendancy to state the obvious. Sorry about the long-windedness. Felt ranty today, I suppose. Thanks for clearing that up for me, it made it much easier to formulate a response. =) Hope you like it. ^^
Some masters teach their students not to flinch to pain. Ignore the pain, and force yourself into a state of calm despite it. I disagree. While there's nothing wrong with calm; try to sever pain, and you sever all emotions linked to it. This means ones like unto it and also those opposite; anger, zeal, passion, ambition, laughter, and sex. Lock away your pain, and you also lock away peace. You're never quite right with yourself.
Some masters teach their students not to flinch to pain; mine taught me to use the flinch to my advantage. While I trust heavily in Ba'alzamon's initiative, I still retained control when it came down to it. Ba'alzamon has not, and does not, and will not ever possess me. I am his Excorcist; His judge, jury, and executioner... and his savior. I am his landlord, his benefactor; I allow him to have room here, and that is the reason he's here. I have given him a second chance, one to make something of himself rather than to defect to hell and be consumed there.
Born a demon in a devil's house, Ba'alzamon never had opportunity to be anything other than demonic. But the devil is a fallen angel; and so, by the simple rules that govern all life and genetics alike, Ba'alzamon must have that within him too. A rat with a severed tail does not beget a tailless rat.
What does this mean, you might ask? True enough, I have used many words to get you warmed up for a certain fact. I was, indeed, in control while I allowed Ba'alzamon to come out and play; but like a teacher in the passenger seat of a student driver vehicle, I have my own break pedal.
I have the power to shift and meld my physical being into any element; (1) and at the moment, I was light. Unfortunately, the attack's anima was not of the same type, therefore I was unable to absorb it in order to add it to my own pool of energy. However, the transformation still allowed me (and Ba'alzamon) to survive the onslaught with something less than fatality, as my molecules slipped between the blazing conflagration that drilled into the core of the planet.
I hadn't been light in a long time, and Ba'alzamon never before; so we shared the reigns.
[color=red]Master, it burns...
You'll be just fine, stick around; this will be good for you in the end.
As you bid.
I was an effigy of the purest white. Pure light was the makeup of my form, all my energy and matter and being temporarily converted. Normal folks would have gone blind at the sight of me, but this thing in Sar's body wasn't looking at me anyway. Not that Sar was in the least bit normal, in the first place.
I took up Wrath and Judgement, where they lay in the smothering crater. They appeared to melt, the liquid-like quicksilver stretching outward into a typical long-sword design. The metal itself began to shine, channeling the light from my form. In the old days, I called it the Holy Dragon Sword.
Allright Ba'al, we're gonna split, and you'll be all on your own. You can handle it, Ba'al. You've been traveling with me for eons now, you've seen it enough. Now GO!
Strike's body of white light split into two forms, each with a Holy Dragon Sword extended from their forearm. The first leapt into the air, spinning into a cartwheel. At the apex of the leap the being of light threw it's limbs out, the sword replicated in both arms. On the ground, the second form dashed toward Sar, combining both arms and then stretching them apart, also creating two Dragon Swords.
Sar uttered nothing as the two bore down upon him, one from the ground, the other from the sky. The first struck first in a vicious double-downward slash. Sar reacted fluidly, instantly, but there were to be no parries today; the light swords slashed through Sar's defenses without cutting them. Instead, where the two blades raked downward through his head, neck, and sternum; his insides writhed and boiled, burnt by the energy.
Being as Strike could travel at the speed of light in a fleshy form, in a form of light you can imagine how light-footed that might make him. However, he had no need to dance and avoid in this form, for any time Sar lashed out with boot, fist, or blade – the attacks slashed harmlessly through the effigy that was Strike, only succeeding in making a small bar of shadow in the tumult that was quickly quenched.
The body charging from the ground opened it's mouth in a scream that never manifested in sound – but in a large beam of light that flooded the area instead. However, through the Aether, a scream manifested in all nearby minds that was the warcry of the converted Demon Ba'alzamon. The first form leapt upward again, somersaulting and hanging at the apex as Ba'alzamon's form crashed into Sar, slashing furiously and wildly. First two parallell slashes to the base of the neck, down through the chest, and out the hips made flesh boil and char once more, internal organs damaged beyond recognition.
Then Ba'alzamon himself crashed through the midsection of his opponent, whose melee defenses were ineffective. The touch of Ba'alzamon's light form had a similar but much less concentrated effect as the Dragon Blades, which resulted in little more than a first-degree burn all over Sar's left side. After Ba'al fell through him, he turned, slashing again horizontally in two parallell attacks, and then in a perfect “X” from the top. Strike's manifestation fell downward, crashing once more through Sar in a downward double-slash, landing upon Sar as Ba'alzamon tackled him again. The resulting effect was a fulmination the likes of which could be seen from distant galaxies; like a supernova.
Sar lie charred, but not bleeding, on the ground. The attacks from the Dragon Sword did not cut skin, but charred and damaged flesh anywhere it slashed. Strike now stood in only one manifestation of light, sharing the reigns with Ba'alzamon once more. Sar was not finished; Strike knew it. His senses through the Aether detected no real soul possessing Sar's body, and that disturbed him. Whatever his retaliation, Strike needed to stay on his toes.
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(1) While I no longer want to bore you, the reader, with details; I thought it would be prudent to explain that this effect is only something I can do for a few minutes, once in a great while. Meaning, each time I shift into an element, I may no longer shift into that element once returning to my normal, fleshy form, for a week or so. Give or take. How's THAT for fair?
OOC: Recap: I took proverbial “damage” from your attack, but the conversion into a form of light turned it into more of a hit-points kind of damage than the lethal wounds the drill effect would have had. Hope that makes sense. Strike and Ba'alzamon now share joint control over this light-form, which will prevail throughout your turn and partially into my next. He and Ba'al temporarily split in order to do a combo “X-slash” (Ever played Crono trigger? Same thing, with a little more flair) and then became one form again. Being made of light and not flesh, they may do this split as often as they desire, and into as many forms as they desire. Do not attack them with “darkness”. They are light. You can't attack light with the lack of light, because obviously there is no lack of light around Strike at this time. If he were to be placed in a “realm of darkness”, it would not be a “realm of darkness” anymore because he is there. Again, I hope that made sense. As a hint for attacking (I hate leaving opponents making it look like they've got no options) Physical attacks will probably result in nothing. Energy attacks will, as I explained, do a "hit-points" kind of damage. Strike can absorb light to increase his energy, but then again; if the light is under your COMPLETE control, it may clash with him like a knuckes against bone.
OoC: Been in Mexico on an emergency trip. I'll begin my response tomorrow.
OoC: I assumed you're in light form this entire time. And yes, I've played Chrono Trigger. Playing it on DS now, actually.
[color=black]With no pain, he surrendered. Strike heft himself vigorously at Sar, each blow like the frantic lick of an incinerator's flame; yet there was no feeling, only the bright gleam of a catastrophic explosion and the dimming aurora that clutched Sar's sight. Down he fell, his legs buckling under the force before him, and from the earth, it seemed he fell through everything. Falling, descending through the soil itself, darkness enshrouded all, only faint holes in the canap