[Eliminator] Eight Precinct

D' smiled. It was a soft one, one full of reminiscing. She knew the aura of loss when it was before and around her, and she couldn't help the feeling that welled up in her. She was not a morbid person, but it came with her last job... she knew.

Her shoulder was fine after some extensive healing and a lot of rest. Seung had gotten her a new staff, so at least she could fight again. There was a small sting in her shoulder and neck when she turned to the extreme, but hey... maybe she could rest more after this. Twitch was fully aware that other people were having fun socializing, but it was clear that this level of tournament was above and beyond anything she'd done with TKD. She hadn't expected this tournament would be easy, but damn.

All in all, it was fun.

"We meet again, Sir."

She bowed respectfully to the statue of Death, and his ward.

"Too soon for my liking, and hopefully not permanent for a long time yet."

Standing tall, she looked at the others, focusing on Serren.

Serren’s head popped up from a nearby open grave. In her hands were the dilapidated remains of an unknown person, likely the person who resided in the dug up grave. Serren unflinchingly kissed a skull with sinews and decayed skin draped over it. The scant light would reveal she was holding the skull in her right hand. Serren noticed Twitch looking at her and turned back to her charge, “Ignore her, she’s obviously jealous.”

“Thank you Eric, I enjoyed dinner.” She paused with a full smile on her face, she was wearing red lipstick. “Your bachelor pad, though charming, will need to wait. Perhaps our next date can adjourn at my place…. Good night. ” she placed a section of torso carried in her left hand and the skull gently down on the bottom of the grave and closed the lid to a coffin.

Serren climbed out with great ease, a zippo lighter in her left hand. She was a 7 foot 1 inch zombie elf that weighed less than a hundred pounds. She wore a floral print summer dress covered in yellow and red tulips. The dress ended at her knees, and topped with thick spaghetti straps complimenting a v-neck. She wore red stilettos anchored with leather straps. The auburn on her lips, the flowery dress, the fun shoes; Serren had been on a date with one Eric Dawson.

Eric Dawson was 20 years old in the 50’s and worked as a dish washer in a “Whites Only” dinner. He was sweet on a girl who never knew his name and never would, as Eric died from complications brought forth by AIDS. Though Eric did not explore drugs or copulation, his mother did, and Eric was born with the mantle of her sins that claimed his life eventually.

But the crushing shyness he felt in life did not pervade in death. Eric scored a date with Serren Glacial. But his first lesson in love, though filling him with imagined hope, would be brought to a sharp halt when he would realize Serren had robbed him and used his heart to get closer to his pockets. His shyness was expressed in life by chronically lighting the very lighter Serren now polished.

Serren stepped forth, through the head stones eyeing the lighter and joined ranks with the group. The statue was in front of her and Twitch was to her left. Wilson was propped to her right on a nearby headstone in arms reach. A six foot scarecrow and terminal partner to Serren, Wilson had one button eye. Serren glowed of happiness from her recent date. She met Twitch’s gaze, “Beautiful evening.”

Blacksmith's voice was her cue. All four had arrived.

The sentinel finally began to move, first was the hand on her right leg. Flexing her fingers out, the ice around them cracked, sending a display of fissures and fractures all along her body armor. Crystals began chipping and falling to the ground as the rest of her body complied to her movement. She gave a sharp jerk to separate her forearm from her knee, and yet another for her other hand to tear from the stone monolith beneath her. It wouldn't be long until the being slid off the basin and onto her feet.

A moment of silence passed before she began to speak.

"Welcome Rising Star, congratulations on making it this far into the Heaven or Hell tournament." It was definitely a woman's voice shining through the helm, though it was strongly distorted, giving it almost a craggy resonance. "Now if you will please comply, for your safety."

Strangely, the being began to walk forward professionally and with no malicious intent. The first person she approached was that of Benjamin. Reaching out her armored, cold and clammy hand, she lightly placed it on his shoulder whilst gesturing to a certain spot on the ground. As she did so, three ancient, silver glyphs burned themselves into the earth, glowing effervescently. The strange eliminator then have him a friendly push.

"Please, stand there."

The suited being then looked to the cat-like woman, repeating the process before leading her to the third glyph, making sure she would stay on it. The undead elf was next, and perhaps the most tricky of the four. The being neglected to touch her, but insisted that she stand on the second glyph with a stern yet polite gesture of her hand. It left the lone Blacksmith to be tinkered with. Confidently turning her back to the group, she slowly traipsed over to her original position, a belt of seven bells at her hip swayed ominously.

"Blacksmith." She said. "Step forward and we may begin."

When he did so, the armor clad woman looked over the group to make sure all was in place and all was according to plan. Sighing out deeply, a cloud of breath escaped her helmet as she wrenched out her right hand. Quite suddenly, a plethora of Charter Marks began materializing and shifting all about the blackened armor, shifting and swiveling with arcane purpose. All of them began to stream towards her outstretched hand, glowing even more brightly as they gained power. The contestants would no doubt see the glyphs beneath them shutter and shine in compliance to her summon. Her own hand began to shake, her fingers curling into a tight fist.

In a swift movement, the eliminator silently puffed out another cloud of air before powerfully twisting her body downward, her fist striking and sinking into the ground.

The world around them went dark.

D' grinned at Serren. "You aren't cheating on Wilson, are you?" She noted the scarecrow's condition. Why, if she only knew he needed another eye, she could have had someone tend to him! ...though, that didn't work so well last time, with the whole wine-stained shirt. It was going to still be hard to get near Wilson and thus near Serren to try to understand her, wasn't it? No matter, they had time. Benjamin was largely ignored, mainly because by the time she was ready to address him about the debt being shaved off, their captain had arrived.

"My bad, Blacksmith." D' wasn't terribly close, certainly out of arm and sword's reach for she had seen many Eliminators and knew how they could get. She still complied with the captain's request, stepping back until she was closer to Serren (but not close enough to have to deal with her necrosis aura).

She'd be re-positioned by the polite figure though, so the warning was apparently not needed. Once everyone was in place, D' watched their host/opponent as she commanded the symbols in the air. Despite her knowledge of many languages, she couldn't decipher the meaning or origin of that one, a fact that only mildly bothered her. Standing on these now-glowing sigils, knowing full well that magic is being formed and things were underway... it made her a bit anxious. Also a bit unsettling was the fact that their opponent as in full plate and she was in a pinstripe suit and boots. Hell, would she even be able to damage the opponent?

"..."

Twitch had been thinking while the scene shifted.

"....Are we in Umbra...?"

Benjamin missed Serren entrance completely as he was entranced by the mirror like sheen of his gauntlets. By rolling the highly polished surface back and forth he was able to glean a murky view of his forehead and the dreaded pimple that ruined an otherwise perfect face. The blemish annoyed him to no end and so he was glaring at it intently as if his force of will alone could banish it from his person. Suffice it to say, reality didn't work like that but no one had ever informed him of that fact.

So he went on glaring at reflection even when Blacksmith started yipping about his music, which by this point was winding down any way. Benjamin only sniffed to show what he thought of such a tone, but still adhered to the spirit of the command by the act of inaction. Moment's later Wiz Khalifa's lyrical rich hit died off, [FIGHTER] that now rested in his pants pocket finally going silent.

The first time he managed to rip himself from the horrid sight was when he was directed in the lights cut out. The sudden loss of sight prevented him continuing and so with a sigh, the blond beaut notched his thumbs beneath his studded belt and raised his eyes see what the hell was going on.

The world came in focus around him and the swordsman simply shuddered.

Not from the cold, or the creepy crawlies that surrounded the barrier around but from the sudden sense of gloom that accompanied an intense feeling of deja vu. It wasn't that he'd ever been here before, although he'd gotten close several times in his mercenary career. It had more to do with the eerie similarities between this place and river basin he'd found himself in on the night that his life had changed forever. On the night his world had ended.

So for a long moment the usually vain and cocksure Benjamin just stood there, his eyes wide and seeing as slight tremors wracked his slim frame.

Unchecked Twitch Wrote:

"....Are we in Umbra...?"

Suddenly, a text message.

Code: To: Twitch D'

From: A.Moonblade

Idiot.

Good thing these FIGHTERs were advanced enough to stay connected through the planes of existence; Noah's staff did an incredible job engineering these devices. Otherwise Moonblade wouldn't be able to let everyone know that they're bad in the abyss of death during a live broadcast.

“ The Abortionist eh! I slap a different label on myself; doesn’t change the contents. Stop if I’m wrong, you can bring back the dead, can control the undead, wear bones, travel to the underworld, you believe in a personal relationship with death, and you somehow reason your actions and occupation as justified in some improvable cosmic sense.”

Serren’s deductive reasoning was broken most of the time but it had it glimmer here and there. Even a bind squirrel finds a nut now and again. Serren noticed the Abortionist wearing bones, the use of runic symbols, and a proclivity for traveling to the underworld. She committed to necromancer as a label.

Serren gazed at the quick action taking place hoping Blacksmith would act before becoming a permanent fixture in this place; the slight smell of lighter fluid feeling her nostrils.

Serren had a lighter in her left hand this entire time, sense the beginning of the fight. Her dress removed and cupped in her hands in the previous turn. She removed the wick from the lighter soaking the contents into the dress. Serren was improvising a subtle fire bomb that was now ready.

Serren knew Blacksmith would need fire...soon.

His opponent began to make her move, evidenced by the magical runes that swirled around her, and Blacksmith stopped moving, right foot planted out a little ways in front of him, bracing himself for whatever was to come. He'd be a little more aggressive, normally, but this was an Eliminator. Trying to rush in and blindly brute-force his way through would probably end with him being crushed. To beat her, he'd have to outthink her. To outthink her, he'd have to start getting an idea of what she could do. To get the best idea of what she could do, he chose to give her the first move.

Still, letting an enemy -- particularly an Eliminator -- have the first blow came with risks, of course.

A cloud of frost and crystals came spraying at him, and he moved his right wrist in front of his face reflexively, though unnecessarily, given that his mask and goggles protected him from the brunt of the attack's freezing and debilitating effects. At the very least, it kept his goggle's lenses from being frosted over. He was prepared to move backwards too, given that attacks like this usually precipitated an attempt to deal damage, but then he heard the tinkling of a small bell. Next thing Blacksmith knew, he was exhausted.

Caught off-guard by the sensation, he swayed where he stood, legs refusing to obey the command to move. He was dazed by the muddling of the senses that accompanies exhaustion, and it took him a couple moments to process that she'd worked some kind of magic on him, and another to make the logical jump that she was probably about to hit him with something. Blearily, he swiveled his head around to try and see her through the lingering mist. He found her, coming up on his left, only a couple feet away and closing in -- surprising him with how quickly and quietly she flanked him, running water or not -- and tried to respond. His left foot and torso swiveled left to face her more directly, but they were sluggish to react to his thoughts, and his left arm too tired to properly swipe down and parry her stab out and away. Instead, his forearm pressed weakly against hers as the point of her kris jabbed up into his side.

To his good fortune, she apparently hadn't properly accounted for the protection of his vest. The narrow nature of the blade's tip would allow it to pierce the vest a couple inches deep, stabbing shallowly into the flesh of his left side, but its curving, wavelike design meant that it would meet resistance. A straight edge would have slipped right in, but the kris would have to be worked in to get deeper. To her credit, that was exactly what she started to do, but the shallow stab wound it had inflicted, with its pain-enhancing properties, provided the masked man with a proper shot of adrenaline to counteract (at least partially) Ranna's effects. Nerves screamed at him, neurons started firing properly again, and muscles, though tired, obeyed.

With a loud grunt, Blacksmith pushed down harder with his left arm, to shove her arm away, and either pull the dagger free or release it and leave it in his vest before she could get much deeper. Simultaneously, he would pull away from her by taking a couple of steps back, trying to get some space and reevaluate, fighting the exhaustion that lingered like a muddling fog.

A somewhat long time ago in a galaxy fairly far away...there lived a young prince.

He had everything a young boy could dream of: money, fame and loyal subject that adored. He should have wanted for nothing but he still was not satisfied. He wanted more, he wanted to be beautiful. Although he was by no means an ugly child, he was plain in comparison to the other members of his household who seemed exuded beauty like the sun does light. For ten years he harbored a fierce jealously of his family and peers, and was consumed by the search to raise his own visage above the rest.

The week before his 13th birthday, the prince purchased a dusty old tome from a travelling merchant. Within he found a ritual that promised to make him the fairest in all the land. Overjoyed by the prospect of obtaining his life long goal, the prince got to work right away. The ritual was long, requiring both exotic material and actions on his part but so fierce was his desire that he spared no expense. By the time his birthday came around he'd reached the last and final step of the rite, and could almost taste the influx of love and adoration that his coming beauty would inspire.

So it was that on a moonless night, the prince found himself naked in midst of the river that ran through the castle grounds, spilling out his life blood into the dark waters. Supposedly that would finish the ritual and grant him his boon, but he felt no different. Disheartened he drew his clothes back about him and headed back inside. There he discovered the spirits had done their work, and he was indeed the fairest in land but at a great cost. You see, the spirits had not enhancing his own beauty but had instead removed all those more magnificent than he. Overcome with grief and the magnitude of what he had done, the young prince had fled.

He didn't make it far, for grief had made him both blind and clumsy. He ened up tumbling head over heels down a grassy knoll, right back into the fateful lake where he'd completed his gravest error. It was there in those cold dark waters, that the full force of what he'd just done struck the young man and left him senseless to the world for a long time.

Many years had passed since then, but Benjamin could not seem to forget that day. It haunted him constantly no matter how much he tried to appease and honor the family he'd throw away by preserving the beauty they'd paid so dearly for. Now the faces of his dead mocked him, starring out from the waters below and crying out curses and accusations he could not refute.

For someone in full plate armor, Jane Doe moved with a speed that matched Serren. Perhaps the armor was light, and made of mixed bone and metal as it appeared to be. Perhaps gravity didn't apply here and full suits of armor were but feathers to the skin.

BlackSmith was closest to Serren. Serren lit the improvised fireball and talked while throwing the ball of fabric underhandedly. Blacksmith was only a few feet away so aiming wasn't horribly difficult. If according to plan; the fire ridden fabric would land on his shoulder.

Jane doe did not respond to Serren's recriminations earlier. She took this as a sign of guilt. Jane Doe's continued ignoring of her would have its price.

Serren chuckled, her smile sense the beginning of this fight had not left her face. Her tone was casual; “I’ve met many a necromancer Jane Doe. They’re so close to the dead…. that they often wear bones; and bones are made of-” Serren’s grin grew wider, she couldn’t help it. She held up her hands as the joints contorted. “Bones are made...BONE!” Her organic collapsing blight was already at work.

The quantities of material were well with in her range. If this worked, Jane Doe’s armor would be compromised as everything organic down to a seams would be deatomized.

Serren hated those who presumed to control the dead; what gave them the right to use us?! She hated that they wore bones not belonging to them. In Serren’s world, necromancers were the barbarians who savagely defiled you for grotesque trophies. They were slave drivers who took your body. The worse ones… fancied themselves as respectful of death. Serren’s hate fueled her blight intensely; and she smiled for justice.

If her armor was anything but metal, they would soon know.

}Based on the posts I believe we are currently like so.{

As Serren tried to use her infamous Blight on the Abhorsen, the glyph would briefly shimmer, negating magic from even forming, just as it had done to the Hellcat.

Upon laying his hands upon her helm, not only would he notice that it was firmly stuck in place, but also that his fingers began to feel rather.. Frosty, itching and numb. As for their elaborate plan to set the pyro on fire, rules of physics would foil their actions. Rell would still be going forward seeing as she launched herself into the soldier, making them both collide into the River below, him more so than her. The flaming wad of cloth sailed overhead and fizzled out uselessly in the frigid waters. He would be in quite a bit of trouble now, his body submerged in the icy flow. Cold lifeless hands crept along his body of souls too scared to let go of what remnants of life surrounded them, their whispers heard only to him. They would begin to weigh him down further, tightening over his limbs and torso, inviting him to join their struggle.

Rell had abandoned her Kris in his shin as she took him out, her hands now free to do her bidding. As he collided with the ground beneath, water splashed out around them, her movements mirrored the rivers fluidity however, now they only quickened. Positioning herself into a straddle at an alarming speed, her knees tucked up into his armpits, she jutted up her arms before cracking her armored elbows into his own elbow joints forcing him to let go of her secure helmet.

Reaching down, she grasped his neck with her sharp fingers, lifting his masked face from the water briefly. Brutally, she connected the bridge of his nose to her armored forehead before forcefully submerging Blacksmith's face. Her chin was tucked to her chest now as she looked down, her spiked fist balling up before delivering a medieval beat down. Drowning was an issue here, not only that but the meat of his neck would no doubt start to feel stiff with freeze, but perhaps the chilling waters would work as a giant icepack.

Winter's Grasp:

The longer Rell holds on to a target's exposed flesh, or if an opponent grapples with the Abhorsen, the more ice damage she does to the opponents cells. By exerting her ability to freeze, she aims to rapidly form ice crystals in the foe's cells.

As to help get away from a close quarters situation, this ability also saps the vitality from the foe, leaving them weaker and making it easier for Rell to escape if need be.

Post 1: Limb begins to intensively itch as the cells die as well as freeze over.

Hasty Hunter-

Enchanting her armor with Marks of speed and agility, Rell gains a 75% speed boost as well as significantly increased flexibility and fluidity.

Other Active Marks:

-Emboldened Verve

The Eliminator had gained the upper hand in these early moments of the fight. She'd managed to wound his leg, severely limiting his mobility, hit him with magic debuffs, and she'd gotten him down and vulnerable. And yet, she chose to engage him on the ground in hand-to-hand combat, his specialty?

Unwise.

Submerged beneath the icy current, Blacksmth was forced to hold his breathe as the chill bit into his flesh and bones. It was . . . not a fun sensation. He hated the cold, but it did serve a purpose, and that purpose was keeping him alert as his opponent mounted his torso. Phantom sensations of things grabbing, clawing at him as the armor-clad combatant clambered atop his chest. It was an unsettling sensation, to say the least, especially since he didn't know the cause -- another spell being worked by his opponent? Some magical property of the vast black river? -- but it didn't matter. As long as he wasn't being held down by something tangible, the center of his focus was still h-

I miss you so much it hurts.

Blacksmith locked up as a voice whispered intimately into his ear, allowing the Eliminator to brush his hand away with little resistance, as a shock coursed along his spine and a rapid-fire cascade of vivid memories shot through his mind. A creaky seaside dock . . . money changing hands . . . raised voices . . . gunfire . . . a gleaming knife blade sawing violently through a pale throat . . . blood staining what had once been beautiful chestnut hair black . . .

He was snapped abruptly out of his brief little reverie by the sensation of armored hands wrapping around the stiff collar attached to his vest (foiling her attempt at choking and freezing his neck) and pulling him upwards from the water. There was a split-second reassessment as his face cleared the water, and from there, all he had to do was what came naturally to him.

Just about the same time that Serren smacked her trusty scarecrow down upon his opponent's skull, as she whipped her metal face towards his own, Blacksmith bucked his hips upward as hard as he could manage. Given how high up on his torso she was, and how she would have to lean down very far in order to headbutt him, most of her weight would be leaning forward, offsetting her center of gravity. All it would take was a little nudge from him to send her tumbling facefirst off of him, right over his head. Of course, that wouldn't stop her helmet from smashing down . . . but once again, his goggles saved him from cranial trauma by taking the brunt of the damage. This time though, they weren't spared, as the force was enough to shatter the hardened plastic lenses and crack the casing.

Unperturbed by the impact save for a throbbing, bleeding nose, Blacksmith rolled to his right into a runner's starting position (shaking loose the kris embedded in his leg as he did so, noting that it felt strangely . . . better), good right leg tucked beneath him as river water and plastic shards dribbled out of the cavity formed by his broken goggles. He was pointed directly at where his opponent would have landed, his now-exposed eyes locked firmly upon her.

} To those feeling jilted,

Cordially forgive the delay, I was asked to wait, pending a discussion between a team mate of mine and a judge.

F.V.{

The healing took its toll, the life given had made Serren that much more dead. The Place was suddenly much louder as Serren heard whispers from every corner and angle. She was closer than nearly everyone else to the souls floating in and around. Serren’s own voice weakened, as the moisture had left her tongue, she sounded closer to the whispers and this only compounded what was fast becoming panic.

Serren heard a soft voice, belonging to no one present, say Blacksmith’s real name. It was a name only known to him and that soul. Her present condition made her an audience to some of the magic at work here. Her expressive, yet dead, face was stricken with pity. She watched as Blacksmith was disarmed, perceivably by himself, and then drowned. Serren had put several necromancers in the ground… some only temporarily. Serren assumed correctly that this was a form of telepathic combat using a soul and or a memory belonging to no one presently. This was unblockable, insipid, and cheap.

She had recovered from her roll back to the glyph and knelt down when [name omitted] landed at her feet and was froze in place. Serren checked him. He was alive, despite being drowned, choked, and denied even a chance to fight the choke hold. He was stuck lying down and Serren removed the dagger quickly with her left, her spent healing energy would finally and possibly make use of itself, late as it was.

Serren stood up to her full and considerable height. Her foe had taken its first. And terror found Serren’s face. Jane Doe took a full blow to the head and didn’t bat a lash. Serren stepped back, away from her captain and Jane and towards her left. At the same time she threw the dagger out of the field, behind her, no doubt the dagger would return via some hidden magic or some other contrived unseen magic that made this place an unbeatable deathtrap.

“Miss Jane, you had no right to use her against him.” Serren referred to the soul or memory who was conjured forth. Most of her insults thus far where based on large assumption based on flaky observation. “Is that what the dead are to you, puppets for depraved entertainment and warm memories you can violate? I know she would have never willingly hurt him, as you used her.”

Serren continued to move backwards towards side by side with Twitch. Serren placed Wilson in both her hands. His body and head would be on her left. She held him defensively, her arms up and elbows bent.

“If not a conscience, do you at least have a name?”

Holding her fingers splayed open to the side, her left hand jerked up as her digits curled around the dagger that had returned much like Serren had guessed. Rell chuckled at the undead elf, her insults rolled off the Abhorsen like water on glass.

"You assume too much, Serren." The Abhorsen began to twirl the kris about her fingers idly, her head tilting to the side almost thoughtfully. "I had no such control over her. In fact. I don't control the souls of the dead. It would defeat my purpose-- you see. She did that all by herself.. I just so happened to have the tactical advantage."

Charter Marks surged over the woman's armor preparing her for another go at the silent team. Reaching over to her belt, her right hand drew small circles over the handle of a certain bell, a different one from the last. Rell looked on the woman for a moment, something tickled at her from the back of her mind. Something wasn't right about this woman, besides the obvious faults. Eyes squinted from behind the tinted visor, a golden gleam catching her attention for a fleeting second before it vanished.

"My name is Rell Barsait." She paused. "And I'm sorry for what has been done to you.."

Using her bolstered speed, the Abhorsen snapped open the clasp holding the bell still, slinging it in a figure eight before clapping it to the side. The bell, Belgaer, the Thinker roared. All in it's path, and whom ever was off the Glyph would be effected by it's confusing wrath. The victims would forget.. Everything. Leaving them dazed, disoriented, and rather vulnerable to attack.

Settling the bell in it's holster, Rell shot forward with great speed, her free hand working a hidden space at her thigh, the other hand holding the kris produced a thick ichor like substance. Three senbon appeared between her finger's divets. Arriving at Serren first, she drove a fist forward into the Elf's chest. A hallow clunk would greet the Abhorsen as the poison tipped needles began to take their effect. Undead or not, the pain wasn't something to be desired. Fire was the first thought that would come to mind.. Acid.. Pain.

Her next movement was a trained flick of the wrist to D'. The dark sludge spackled the Hellcat's body before beginning to silently climb it's way up, quickly trying to make it's way to her eyes. If she'd try to wipe away the mixture, it would spread to her hands and arms, allowing it to travel further. But once it reached it's location?

...ssenkraD...

+Belgaer, the Thinker;

Scrambles the person's thoughts in varying degree's

Duration: 2.5 Posts

3: A temporary amnesia takes hold until affect dissipates.

Poison Barbed Senbon:

Pictured here. (But with a drastic backward pointing bard.)

4 inches in length and 40-50 grams a piece, these tempered steel needles are perfect for skewering an opponent and are ample throwing weapons of distances up to 60 feet. (Limit 30 feet for Tournament.)

Causes severe pain when punctured into skin, but real damage is dealt upon pulling the senbon out. The barb at the end will ensure further internal tearing and slicing of flesh.

Each are tipped with minute amounts of Manticore poison. Upon entry into a wound, the poison takes effect immediately by causing more and more immense pain the longer it is left in. Once the senbon is ripped out, the poison's effect is quelled in 2 posts.

Dark Sludge:

Channeling Marks of darkness and blinding, a thick ooze slithers into Rell's fingers or weapon, awaiting to be flung onto the opponents face. Upon contact, the ichor seeks out the foes eyes and freezes for a single post. When the ooze's effectiveness ends, it leaves lingering effects that burn the trail it made to get to the eyes, and the flesh around the eyes themselves. Making them extremely irritated and itchy.

Duration: 2 Posts

Other Active Marks:

Emboldened Verve

Hasty Hunter

Blacksmith struggled mightily in the midst of insurmountable odds and was at last overcome, drowned like a rat in the river of souls. Benjamin however failed to notice this event, as he was still lost in the labyrinth made of his own bad memories, forced to walk down he halls of a long abandoned keep as the faces of ones long gone heckled him from every balcony and crawl space.

He would have stayed like that, forever frozen by a past he had struggled so hard to escape and bound by a guilt he could never alleviate, if the rippled caused by his captain's passage into unconsciousness had not obscured the phantasms that held him enthralled. As the water frothed, the blond beaut was abruptly and mercifully flung back into the present. He was still groggy and a bit out of sorts from his trip down memory lane but he grew more aware of his surroundings with each passing second.

As he gained full control of his faculties, he saw Serren and then Twitch both struggling in a vain effort vanquish their Eliminator. The scene brought a crooked broken laughter bubbling up from his haunted face. Didn't they understand how pointless that was? Didn't understand how this game was played? Benjamin did, he'd gained a bit of insight gleamed from his brief sojourn into endless despair. He was now able to see what they were truly up against.

What they were fighting was not a woman, nor a necromancer but DEATH itself. In this place the acolytes of what some called a god and others referred to as a force of nature, were no longer human beings but avatars of their patron. And their patron could not be defeated, not in his heart of power by such a ragged bunch of mercenaries. For death is inevitable, inescapable, eternal. Death is not something you overcome or threaten but something you can only strive endure. And since they could not hope to best this thing before them, their only choice was to try and limit their suffering.

With that in mind, he reached forward and tugged Twitch back from the spray of darkness that was sent her way. He roughly yanked her back not onto her own glyph but between hers and his own, so that he could depart from the sidelines without endangering their lives further. He was as much magic as next fellow and though not versed in his study, even he could tell that these symbols were meant to hold off some unspeakable doom.

Trusting in some bold guesswork and a desire not to be the last man standing among a sea of broken bodies, he moved forward onto the battlefield. And this time around he actual had a strategy. He was feudal lord by birth and thus new a thing or two about hunting both done by man and beast. In the wild, those who strove to survive against a predator much larger and deadlier than themselves employed a savage game of keep away. They attack from multiple fronts, staggering their attacks so that their opponent never had the time to focus on any one target for too long. After a long period of constantly shifting between opponent after opponent that larger predator either departs in frustration or becomes fatigued to the point of vulnerability.

While they had neither the usable numbers or time to make such a ploy work, they lacked options. So he employed what methodology and strategy he could, striking at Death from behind (or as behind as he could in a couple of strides). Since he was not exactly trying to be obvious, he came at not only as fast as he could be accompanied by a small light and sound show. His hands sparkled and gave off bits of sound as he activated his sword and buckler, practically screaming at their Eliminator to, "LOOK BEHIND YOU!"

Whether she heeded such warnings or not he'd react that same, striking out at Death with a snap kick off his right leg so that she'd take her attention off the corpse before her. Hit or miss, he'd back slightly off, not willing to commit to anything. He didn't wan't die too soon, after all there'd be so many people to answer to.

Oh, Death, оh Death, oh Death,

Won't you spare me over til another year..

Serren's confused state would remain as such as her grab was met with.. Unusual results. Her Blight crackled visibly about the armor, making it creak and moan before completely sputtering out, ceasing to work at all. The magics awoke burning white Charter Marks that long had enchanted Rell's armor. A Holy burning energy that started to wither and sear the Elf's limb. It was the exact opposite of what would have happened to a normal soul, but Rell wasn't quite this. Dropping her weapon, her arm twisted up to chunk at Serren's arm, grasping it with a fierce power. Ice began to take hold of the limb. Pain was a misnomer.

But what is this, that I cannot see,

with ice cold hands taking hold of me..

Benjamin would move now, in plain sight none the less, the Abhorsen would allow it. His fireworks and tactics of distraction were cute, but nothing enough to catch her attention. She knew better than to turn her back on three willing fighters. With violent grace, Rell reached down the moment his foot connected with her armor, her fingers digging into his flesh quite easily. Ice too started to ravage his leg.

When God is gone and the Devil takes hold,

who will have mercy on your soul

Oh, Death, оh Death, oh Death,

With the first audible hiss from the woman, a plume of her breath seeped through her helmet as she forced a massive amount of Marks surging into her victim's extremities as she stood back up with enough force to jerk the man off of his other foot. Crystals rampaged out from their skin, encasing them in a think layer of hard ice, and with a twist of her body, and a snap of her wrists--

SSKKKIITTCCHHH

No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold,

Nothing satisfies me but your soul..

From the elbow to the tip of Serren's fingers would ceremoniously snap off in a grand chunk. And light Benjamin would lose his leg from the knee to the end of his toes. A dark giggled emitted from the woman's helm as she used her heightened speed to her utmost advantage. Crossing her arms whilst still holding onto the severed parts, the Abhorsen shoved the wrong limbs in all the right places.

Oh, Death,

Well I am Death, none can excel,

I'll open the door to heaven or hell..

The bewildered elf would find she have an ankle as a wrist, and Benjamin would now have lovely nails on his unnaturally spindly toes. That's right, the limbs were reversed, and began to instantaneously thaw, their skins fusing as if healing very nicely.

Benjamin had -FOUR- extra seconds to react now. Rell darted six feet backwards to admire her beautiful work. With enough Charter Magic, anything was possible. Alas a taste of malice filled her mind, one she didn't enjoy often. But her power, her power swelled around her in a misty aura, attracting all of the roving souls to smash themselves against the Barrier around them. Gargles of pain and desire emitted from the creatures, creating an unnerving din.

Oh, Death, оh Death,

my name is Death and the end ïs here...

A repeat of Winter's Grasp, though empowered with a plethora of Marks.

On a Pale Horse:

With a sudden flux of agility, Rell can now cover a distance of 8 feet straight forward in a single dash. Alternatively, Rell can also choose to dash to the side, diagonally, or backwards by 6 feet.

Other Active Marks:

Emboldened Verve

Hasty Hunter

The Abhorsen is charging...