[MUD] Armageddon: If you liked Dark Sun ...

[Kajhera]

Come pay a visit to the desert world of Zalanthas at armageddon.org.

--
Copied shamelessly from the Quickstart: Zalanthas is a desert planet; water is scarce and its sources bitterly contested. The planet is also metal-poor; a commoner may go a lifetime without seeing a metal object larger than a ring. There is no metal currency; coins are made from obsidian. Most characters choose not to leave the relative safety of the city - the desert is full of brutality and death.
--

So basically, this place is a permadeath RPI MUD. You die, you're dead; you're expected to stay in character as much as possible; and it's a MUD. (I recommend MUSHClient as a good client to play with.)

I'll... I'll write up a better description later I think. Placeholder sentence here.

Right now just go check it out. Place is pretty fun. My account there's name is Kalai.

[Kajhera]

Mmkay rather than describing, check out this staff-side log of the set-up for the gladiatorial event going on right now. For players, people don't have names like this; rather, they'll be referred to by their descriptions ('the dusky, scar-licked female'). You don't get to see what people think and feel either of course. 

(click to show/hide)

Setting:
The Mess Hall [5847]  [INDOORS] [E, S, W]
   The cavernous walls of this stone-walled room echo with the sounds of
voices, raised in quarrels and conversation.  Several long wooden tables sit
scattered throughout the room, low benches of agafari drawn up to them.  The
floor underfoot is scattered with straws and bits of stray food, and the air
is thick with the unpleasant smell of badly cooked food.  Guttering torches
hang from yellowed bone brackets on the walls, casting a flickering light
across the room, while sending up oily black smoke to further thicken the
air. 
Broken and worn, part of a long wooden agafari bench is here against the wall.
A large wooden barrel sits here.
The bulky, rose-tattooed mul (Lirt) is standing here.
The hefty, doe-eyed man (Botros) is standing here.
A short burly cook scowls as he dispenses food.


Cast:
Bortos - The hefty, doe-eyed man
Cesta - The dusky, scar-licked female
Lirt -  The bulky, rose-tattooed mul 

Scene:
-- Drawing himself up, chins jiggling a bit, Botros asks: I'm Botros! You...?

-- A grin slowly sprouts over #Cesta#'s largely hidden face, leaning back against the wall a little.

-- Lifting her leather, spike-covered cestus, putting it on and flexing her fingers within it, Cesta says to Botros: Cesta.

-- Hesitantly, Botros says: Oh, well. That's very... apt.

-- #Cesta# chuckles darkly, lowering her cestus gloved fist.

-- Glumly, Cesta asks Botros: I was born to dance and die. What more do you want. To talk of flowers?

-- Gesturing northward, Cesta says to Botros: Get some food, fat man. They're serving.

-- Botros says: ...I already ate.

-- Cesta says: I am waiting for my Templar. She says she will be by the cells soon.

-- Nonetheless, #Botros# plods back along the hallway, trying to stay as far away from Cesta as possible.

-- Feeling restless, Botros thinks: I should... She has... Well, maybe I should wait. Maybe somebody from the T'zai Byn will come and give me better things and ohHighlordit'samuldon'tlookatit.

-- [hidden emote] #Botros# seizes up, fat jiggling, and tries very hard not to look at Lirt.

-- Looking dubiously into a bubbling pot, Lirt asks a short burly cook: What kind of mush do you have today?

-- Stroking her chin as she accepts a plate of scrab, still peering into the mush pot, Lirt says to a short burly cook: So it's mush flavored mush today, I see. I like it better than the other kind.

-- Dully, holding out a bowl, Cesta says to a short burly cook: Uh, mush.

-- Calling over uncertainly, Botros says to a short burly cook: Actually, I would like the steak, please.

-- #Botros# waddles closer, presenting a fleshy palm to a short burly cook.

-- Retching a little and tossing it away from her on the table, Cesta discards her small portion of a bowl of mush.

-- Pensively, Botros looks at his grilled scrab steak.

-- Spitting a little, Cesta talks at their table: Bad batch, today.

-- Philosophically, as she chews through the unevenly cooked texture of her grilled scrab steak, Lirt talks at their table: What's the point of mush?

-- #Botros# lifts his head, looking toward a long, scarred table of agafari wood, flinches a bit when he spots Lirt, then plods over toward another table instead.

-- Grunting, Cesta talks at their table: Comes out as smoothly as it goes down. Too bad it starts off tasting like shit, too.

-- #Lirt# chuckles a little, her mouth full of food.

-- Narrowing her eyes a little, seated across from Cesta, Lirt talks at their table: I like your helmet.

-- Lifting her hand clad in her leather, spike-covered cestus before patting it to her chest, Cesta talks at their table: I'm Cesta. One of Lady Templar Lyvren's. You?

-- Botros thinks: Oh, she shouldn't be talking to it.

-- Not sounding particularly proud, Cesta talks at their table: It was my father's. He died wearing it.

-- Black eyes still fastened on Cesta's helmet, Lirt talks at their table: Lirt. Borsail.

-- Feeling an abrupt roil of jealousy, Lirt thinks: Fuck.

-- Lirt thinks: She WOULD.

-- Lirt feels angry.

-- #Lirt# begins to rip apart her steak into little pieces.

-- Lifting her chin, voice suddenly very hard and firm, Cesta talks at their table: Well met. Don't go thinking on the helmet. I broke the wrist of the last dumbfuck to try and take it.

-- Frowning at Cesta, dropping the fragments of steak back onto her plate, Lirt talks at their table: You go ahead and try to break my wrist.

-- Lirt thinks: I don't even care about the helmet.

-- Lirt thinks: It's the father bit that annoys me.

A few of the other slaves sat around Cesta look worriedly at Lirt then scoot away, leaving  Cesta sat alone.

-- When the other slaves abandon Cesta at that table, #Botros# looks hastily down.

-- Botros thinks: Oh, my. Best not get involved.

-- Glancing to her side, and then looking back to Lirt, Cesta talks at their table: Oh...

-- Bowing her head, giving a grunt of deference, Cesta talks at their table: You -are- a mul. Well...

-- Dully, Cesta talks at their table: Fuck.

-- Scowling at the retreating slaves, then leaning forward to speak intently to Cesta, Lirt talks at their table: You don't need to go parading your dad around like you're special, ok? Your shit smells the same as mine.

-- Lirt feels her hands tremble with rage.

-- [hidden emote] #Lirt# clenches her fists more tightly.

-- Nodding once and quickly, Cesta talks at their table: I won't. If you don't break my neck, before we can make a show of it, ay?

-- With a grunt, flexing her broad fingers, Lirt talks at their table: Fine. See that you don't, and then I won't.

-- Lirt feels slightly appeased.

-- #Cesta# glances at her leather, spike-covered cestus and lowers her hand to her lap.

-- Abruptly, raising her voice a little, Cesta says: Feck, it'll be good to train.

-- #Botros# prods at his grilled scrab steak, scooting it across the tabletop with a wet smear.

-- Feeling horrified, Botros thinks: No it wouldn't.

-- Belligerence fading from her tone, thumping a heavily muscled and crimson-tattooed arm upon the table, Lirt talks at their table: Aye. What's your weapon, then?

-- [hidden emote] #Cesta# glances at Botros with a slight turn of her head, and lets out a quiet laugh.

-- Patting the hilt of her curved, black-hilted shortsword with her cestus clad hand, Cesta talks at their table: My sword and my fist. Sometimes a shield.

--With a narrow side-glance, the bulky, rose-tattooed mul (Lirt) looks at the hefty, doe-eyed man (Botros).

-- Despite himself, #Botros# raises his head again - only to note Lirt's side-glance, and choke on a titter.

-- #Botros# glances down again, nostrils pinching shut as he inhales.

--The hefty, doe-eyed man (Botros) glances down again, nostrils pinching shut as he inhales.

--Nearly knocking the bench over, the bulky, rose-tattooed mul (Lirt) stands up from a long, scarred table of agafari wood.

-- Feeling sick, Botros thinks: I'm going to have to fight -that-?

-- Turning around to face him, her back to Cesta, Lirt asks Botros: Did you laugh at me?

-- #Botros# presses his bulk against the tabletop, sandwiching his grilled scrab steak between his bone-reinforced leather breastplate and table, and tries to make himself look smaller.

-- Dryly, her slitted gaze tracking Botros, Cesta says: Oh look, a talking target. Straw headed dummy. What have you.

-- Shaking his head vigorously, whining, Botros says: Nooo, I didn't. I wasn't even - I was, no. No. No... Ma'am. I was not.

-- [hidden emote] #Botros# may very well be on the verge of tears.

-- Botros thinks: Oh that stupid, horrible slave is going to kill me. I know it!

-- Stroking her bald head, contemplatively, as she moves restlessly back and forth, Lirt asks Botros: Must have swallowed some food wrong, eh? What's you're weapon, then?

-- With another flinch, unable to bring himself to look at Lirt, Botros says: Uhm.

-- #Botros# reaches back meekly, touching his bone-handled, obsidian greataxe.

-- Blinking at him, in sudden recognition, Lirt asks Botros: Fack, are you the one that cries in the cupboard, then?

-- Leaning up a little, his grilled scrab steak sticking to his bone-reinforced leather breastplate before it falls into his lap, Botros says: I was, I was given -- this. Uhm.

--The dusky, scar-licked female (Cesta) laughs at the bulky, rose-tattooed mul (Lirt).

-- #Botros# fixes Lirt with a look. It is a miserably sad one.

-- Stroking her head again, starting to chuckle, her massive chest and shoulders quaking with laughter, Lirt says to Botros: Ha. Haaa ha. You. Your steak. Hahahah. Ha.

-- Sniffing, Cesta says: Well, it's always a delight to see some guts spilled, flesh and fat rent apart. He has plenty.

-- His eyes actually watering up when Lirt starts to laugh, Botros says: I'm Botros. The Sk-ssk-scrab.

-- Botros thinks: This is horrible. I hate my life. I hate everything. I'm going to diiiiieeee.

-- Whistling, Cesta says: He has a nickname. I'm scared of him.

-- Botros thinks: That... That... card cheat.

-- Rubbing her hands together vigorously, Lirt exclaims to Cesta: Aye! Me too!

-- Lirt feels genuine humor.

-- Botros thinks: They said having a nickname was important. Did they lie to me?

-- Botros thinks: What's wrong with 'the scrab?'

-- #Botros# glances down, hunching forward against a long, scarred table of agafari wood.

-- Taking a step so she can clap him on his hefty back, Lirt says to Botros: Nice to meet you, Botros. Don't worry, you'll probably never fight me. Wouldn't last long enough.

-- #Lirt# pats Botros's shoulder a few times.

-- At the clap, #Botros# flinches, tensing up with a muffled whine.

-- Lirt feels cheerful.

-- #Botros# whines at each and every pat.

-- #Cesta# grins, leaning back against the table.

-- #Lirt# grins and grins.

-- Lirt thinks: Oh, wait. He's scared of me.

-- #Lirt# looks down at Botros, blinking at his whining.

-- Icumen sends to Lirt: Lirt. This is Moderate Lord Icumen Borsail, giving you the ever-so-gracious courtesy of a forwarning: I, my Lady Cousin, and one of the Ladies Templar are coming to inspect the pens, and that includes you. Best behaviour.

-- Quickly taking her hand off of him, Lirt says to Botros: Oh, er. Sorry. Didn't realize I was scaring you. Oh shit. Oh shit.

-- #Botros# sags forward into a long, scarred table of agafari wood, hugging himself.

-- #Lirt# frantically scrambles around, brushing down her crimson sandcloth cloak and darting from the room.

-- [hidden emote] #Botros# whimpers.

-- Softly, Cesta asks: Eh?

The dusky, scar-licked female (Cesta) stands up from a long, scarred table of agafari wood.

-- Over her shoulder to Botros, as she dashes out, bowling a few elven slaves out of the way, Lirt exclaims: Nice to meet you Scrabby!

-- With a snort, Cesta says: Hope M'Lady comes soon.

-- Botros feels much better alone.

[Kajhera]

And the brutality and death commences. Behind the scenes we see not all get the privilege to die horribly in the arena. Warning: Gore, violence, unfair odds. 

(click to show/hide)

Setting:  Gladiator Pens

Characters:

Lord Icumen Borsal
Delshire of the Blue (Templar)

Gladiators:

Cesta
Iglamek
Zaf
Azhar
Boros


-- After a few beats of a pause, head tilting marginally, Icumen asks Iglamek: ... didn't I oversee your training, once, half a lifetime ago?


-- His tone soft, Iglamek says: You did, Lord Borsail.  I've come quite far after I was sold to the House Fale.  I still bear your mark and blood with the dignity it deserves, Lord Borsail.


-- Gruffly in his greeting, raising his singular gaze to Icumen, Zaf says: Moderate Lord.


-- #Zaf# seems to straighten just a bit, squaring his shoulders under Icumen's scrutiny.


-- After a beat of a pause, eyes still on Zaf, Icumen says to Iglamek: Mmm. Hopefully House Fale has not gotten you too soft. We'll see how you fare against our latest breedings.


-- Easing back aside with another series of popping joints, Azhar stands up from a long, scarred table of agafari wood.


-- [hidden emote] #Cesta# cannot help but shudder a bit at the mention of breeding.


-- With a slight slant of a smile, Iglamek says: I have been hardening up again since I was lost from House Fale to Lord Templar Athios Sath in a game of kruth, Lord Borsail.  I won't disappoint.


-- #Iglamek# ceases his chatter and dips into a deep bow towards the horribly scarred templar.


-- With a gravelly cough, #Delshire  clears his throat.


-- Catching sight of Delshire after some time, #Zaf# offers a stiff bow.


-- Cesta stands up from a long, scarred table of agafari wood, bowing deeply to Delshire, gaze to the ground.


-- #Azhar# chin dips in silent respect, followed in turn by a bow of his torso.


-- Raising a hand for silence, the horribly scarred man says: Ladies, gentlemen. Guests of His glorious arena.


-- #Cesta# doesn't notice Zaf's look, remaining bent at her waist as she listens to the horribly scarred templar.


-- Cesta contacts Boros with the Way.


-- Cesta sends to Boros: Bow to the templar.


-- #Icumen# keeps his attention mostly on the horribly scarred templar, though now and again his gaze strays toward nearby gladiators.


-- #Delshire clears his throat again, giving Boros a signifigant look.


-- Folding his arms across his chest, the horribly scarred man says: Let it be known among you all that the slave once known as Asadine has... Displeased us. Immeasurably.


-- [hidden emote] #Cesta# cannot surpress a huge grin for a moment.


-- #Boros# shifts his lopsided gaze quickly back to the horribly scarred templar.


-- #Iglamek# inclines his head softly, hiding a vicious smile with the angle of his massive facial fur.


-- #Azhar# remains silent, his craggy form stiff as he listens.


-- Boros thinks: Tha' cun'. Aye fuck her.


-- Azhar thinks: Ah nice, one less cully to worry about topside.


-- Zaf thinks: Been awhile since I got to pull someone apart.


-- Azhar feels pleased with the news.


-- Pointedly, Delshire says: If something... Untoward should happen to her, here in these cells? I do believe the guards may just be inclined to look the other way.

-- Boros thinks: Mmmmm....see if the Sergean' can ge' me somethin' tainted fer her ass then.


-- #Iglamek# folds his hands before him, cracking one knuckle, the pinky with the massive, wyvern-tattooed man on it.


-- With a glance at Alin, Delshire says: And perhaps there might be a few extra rations on the table the next day.


-- #Boros# sucks spit through the gaps in his rotten teeth.


-- #Iglamek# folds his hands before him, cracking one knuckle, the pinky with his massive, skull-carved ring on it.


-- #Cesta# bows a little deeper to the horribly scarred templar before straightening herself to listen. Her gaze remains to the ground before her.


-- Gruffly, giving a low chuckle as he mutters the word, Zaf says: Dibs.


-- Delshire  nods to a human soldier, turning on his heel.


-- Boros thinks: No' if I ge' her ass first fucko.


-- Inclining his head as he turns back, once Delshire has turned, Icumen says to Zaf: I wouldn't half mind seeing some limbs removed. And then used as bludgeoning utensils.


-- Over his shoulder, Delshire says: Oh, and the sooner, the better. I imagine Lord Borsail here appreciates a sgood show.


-- #Boros# fidgets with barely contained excitement.


-- His tone soft, to Zaf, Iglamek asks: I'll set her up, you put her down?


-- Hands behind his back, Delshire strolls off down the corridor.



-- #Cesta# smiles openly as she glances aside at some of the other slaves.


-- After a lengthy pause, Azhar says: Well, mm..one less shadow to worry about down here.

-- With a cruel smile, showing stained teeth, Zaf asks Iglamek: For the Highlord, yes?


-- Pumping her fist and grunting in her delight, Cesta says: Huah! Someone finally getting what they deserve...


-- After a deep breath, reaching toward his wyvern-buckled silver-dyed belt, Icumen says: Truth be told, my newest whip has yet to be graced with blood. I wouldn't half mind it getting its first taste.


-- Quieting down, Cesta sits at a long, scarred table of agafari wood.


-- #Boros# flashes a rotten, gap-toothed grin toward Cesta.


-- Voice hoarse, Azhar says to Cesta: Be patient. You'll get your turn on her I imagine.


-- With a chuckle, Iglamek says: I'll be right back, lemme see what I can... dig up.

-- Uncoiling it, Icumen stops using his wyvern-carved, crimson and black whip.


-- Boros thinks: I tol' that' cunt she was goin' down here.

-- Nodding, Cesta says: Ay, but I won't be involved at first. Don't want to botch any of your work.


-- Slumping back once more, Azhar sits at a long, scarred table of agafari wood.


-- Nudging it open, Iglamek opens the door.


-- Holding it out wordlessly, Icumen gives his wyvern-carved, crimson and black whip to Zaf.


-- Iglamek closes the door.


-- Iglamek thinks: Damn...


-- #Iglamek# jerks his chin southward.


-- #Boros# nods faintly.


-- Looking south, Zaf asks: That tha one?


-- Glancing over to Asadine, Iglamek asks: You care for a rematch, Asadine?


-- A short burly cook says: I have no idea how to make that.


-- Azhar thinks: Be ready..this gonna get ugly, fast..


-- #Alin short burly cook human man# nods, preparing a bowl of mush for the dusky, scar-licked female.


-- Asadine asks Iglamek: Do you not get enough of having your ass kicked, seriously?


-- #Boros# sucks spit through the gaps in his rotten teeth.


-- Azhar feels your muscles tense in preparation.


-- Quietly eating at a long, scarred table of agafari wood, Cesta eats a portion of her bowl of mush.


-- With a soft chuckle, Iglamek says: Call it professional pride.  Let me make you eat those words, -slave-.

-- Zaf contacts Icumen with the Way.


-- #Iglamek# turns and steps over to the training chamber.

-- Zaf sends to Icumen: Requests?


-- Boros thinks: Ain' gonna get time to fuckin' get taints. Migh' 'ave to get in a shot before she goes down.


-- Mouth twisting aside in a brief smirk, Azhar says: Ah, a good show.


-- Azhar stands up from a long, scarred table of agafari wood.


-- #Asadine# looks Icumen over, then bows, somewhat.


-- Sidelong, Icumen says to Zaf: I want to watch this. Don't mind me.


-- #Icumen# curls a subtle smile, quelling it shortly after.


-- Collecting them off the floor, Asadine picks up a bloodied short bone sparring axe.


-- Cesta stands up from a long, scarred table of agafari wood.

-- #Azhar# unlatches the bindings on his arc-bladed staff, freeing his back to lean against the wall.


-- #Iglamek# meanders over towards the sparring ring and steps in.


-- #Asadine# moves over to the circle, and squares off with Iglamek, looking utterly bored and dispassionate.


-- #Boros# leans against the wall near the entrance to the mess hall.


-- Simply, Asadine says: Whenever you're ready. I'd like to get back to my original plan of -eating-.


-- As he raises his bloodied short bone sparring sword in salute to Asadine, Iglamek says: Cheers.  To the first day of the rest of your life.


-- Azhar contacts Boros with the Way.


-- #Iglamek# obliges.


-- Azhar severs his psychic contact.


-- Taking a place outside the circle, #Zaf# folds chitin-sheathed arms over a barrel chest, watching.


-- Idly, Azhar says to Boros: Be ready.


-- #Asadine# twists her axe away, easily, and circles to the right.


-- Zaf thinks: She moves good.


-- #Asadine's# hand takes a shot, which makes her frown.


-- #Iglamek# lands another solid whack to Asadine.


-- With a quick laugh to Asadine, Iglamek asks: You aint worried, are ya?

-- Sidelong, watching the fight contentedly, Icumen says to Zaf: Do what feels best to you, Zaf. You're the long-running winner of fights; I trust your judgment.


-- #Asadine# brings her round, jade-painted shield up, ducking down and whacking Iglamek's foot in response.


-- Tapping the side of her bloodied black, braxat-shell helm, Cesta says: Nothing gets through.


-- #Zaf# nods a bit, watching on in silence.


-- #Iglamek# sidesteps after a block and comes in.


-- #Iglamek# dips a single nod.


-- Toward the watching soldier, briefly, Icumen looks up.


-- #Asadine# draws the secondary axe, the moment she loses the first, shaking her head at Iglamek.

-- Lips pursing momentarily, Azhar says: Mm..fairly even.

-- #Iglamek# stomps down on the fallen axe and then winds his blade like a snake towards Asadine's wrist.


Watching the fight for a time, the bronzed, kinky-haired man (Icumen) looks at the long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine).


-- [hidden emote] #Zaf# grins, juts faintly.


The titanically-moustachioed brute (Iglamek) stops holding his bloodied short bone sparring sword.


The titanically-moustachioed brute (Iglamek) unslings a dragon-etched obsidian longsword from his back.


-- #Asadine# comes in, slamming her axe into Iglamek, and trips herself up.


-- #Iglamek# suddenly hauls out a live blade, his face dispassionate.


The braided, battle-scarred elf (Boros) begins guarding the west exit.


-- Asadine stands up.


The macabre, scar-ravaged man (Azhar) brandishes his arc-bladed staff in both hands.


The braided, battle-scarred elf (Boros) draws a sapphire-dyed, gold tasseled warclub.


The long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine) chops the titanically-moustachioed brute (Iglamek)'s head, connecting hard.


The long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine) drops a bloodied short bone sparring axe.


The braided, battle-scarred elf (Boros) draws a wicked-edged, bone scimitar.


The long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine) draws a razor-edged, obsidian tomahawk.


-- #Boros# steps in front of the doorway.


The macabre, scar-ravaged man (Azhar)'s a grey, chitin wrist razor cuts deeply into the long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine)'s face.


-- #Zaf# grunts.


The long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine) blocks the titanically-moustachioed brute (Iglamek)'s attack.


The titanically-moustachioed brute (Iglamek) parries the long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine)'s attack.


-- #Asadine# whips out her own live weapon, turning to face off with elf and Iglamek, hissing.



-- #Azhar# abruptly surges forward his arc-bladed staff arcing throuwh in a swift whirl!


-- #Icumen# lets out a low, dispassionate laugh, low in his throat.



The beastly, one-eyed mul (Zaf) looks up at the dusky, scar-licked female (Cesta).


Snippets of relaxed conversation drift down between the bars of the bone grating overhead.


-- As Asadine is surrounded, Iglamek says: You done fucked up, girl.

-- #Boros# snickers.


The macabre, scar-ravaged man (Azhar) solidly slashes the long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine)'s body.


-- Voice hoarse, hushed, Azhar says: One less shadooow..


-- #Asadine# grunts, shifting right, then left, and keeping her guard up while the razor manages to break her guard.


The macabre, scar-ravaged man (Azhar) slashes the long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine) on her neck, wounding her.

-- Grunting, Zaf says: No sport.


-- Murmuring as she watches, Cesta says: She deserve to live and feel pain. Maybe learn a lesson about her place, before she dies.


The long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine) lightly chops the titanically-moustachioed brute (Iglamek)'s leg.


-- #Azhar's# staff slices through the flesh like a hot knife through a kalan.


-- As he works his blade, taking another light blow, Iglamek says: I do so love life lessons.


-- #Cesta# steps up and tries to land a blow upon Asadine!


-- #Boros# flicks his tongue out over his lips.


-- #Iglamek# takes a blow to the ribs, a gash opening.

-- Cesta severs her psychic contact.


-- #Asadine# seems to be weakened, considerably, sidestepping a kick, and panting hard.


-- #Asadine# seems to be weakened, considerably, sidestepping a kick, and panting hard.


The dusky, scar-licked female (Cesta) lightly bludgeons the long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine)'s body.

The titanically-moustachioed brute (Iglamek) blocks the long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine)'s attack.


-- #Zaf# trundles forward.


The long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine) evades the macabre, scar-ravaged man (Azhar)'s charge, who loses his balance and falls.


-- Boros thinks: Aye...fuck yeh cunt.


The long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine) crumples to the ground.


-- #Iglamek# whistles as the tomahawk goes flying.

-- Rolling smoothly over a shoulder, Azhar stands up.


-- Holding up a hand, Azhar says: Enough.


-- #Boros# steps away from the doorway.


-- #Asadine# grunts, and hits the ground after a bludgeon to the stomach.


-- #Iglamek# stabs downward with his dragon-etched obsidian longsword, pinning Asadine's shoulder to the floor.


-- Lips peeling back in a mischievous grin, Azhar says: The show, right? We must give the show..


Heads peek in from the mess hall, eyes wide at the fight.


-- #Boros# clears his throat, spitting a wad of greenish-yellow phlegm onto Asadine.

-- As he looks to Zaf, Iglamek asks: I believe there was something about... limbs?


-- In a flip over, Azhar wears his bloodied arc-bladed staff on his back.


The beastly, one-eyed mul (Zaf) slings a wyvern-hilted obsidian bastard sword across his back.


-- #Asadine# hisses, gritting her teeth and choking back pained agony when her shoulder is pierced through.


-- #Iglamek# gives his dragon-etched obsidian longsword a small twist, the obsidian grating against bone.


-- #Cesta# grins, keeping her shield up as she stands near Iglamek.


-- #Zaf# flexes chitin-backed hands as he steps over near Asadine.


-- Grasping the blade with her free hand, and straining, Asadine shouts: You... -coward-! Weak fucking coward!


-- #Iglamek# kinds bleeds a little bit from a few wounds on the left side of his chest.


-- #Azhar# looses a dusty chortle at that.


-- Zaf says: Like rats on a corpse pile, no sport.


-- Asadine shouts: FUCKING COWARDS!


-- As he gives the blade another twist, Iglamek says: Oh shush you.  


-- #Cesta# snorts at Asadine Loudly.


-- #Icumen# snorts softly, merely watching the goings-on in otherwise silence.


-- #Asadine# lets out a pitched wail when the blade is twisted in her shoulder, her free hand bleeding from the grip it has on the blade.

-- Snickering, Boros says to Asadine: I telled yeh. Yeh wouldn' see the games.


-- Brow furrowing, Azhar says to Asadine: Shhh, you will see your ancestors my deal. Tell them we are coming.


-- #Iglamek# keeps his weight leaning on the blade, keeping Asadine well pinned.


-- Voice hushed, Azhar says: After all, we are but..-dust- and shadows..


-- Glancing to Azhar, Iglamek says: That's real poetical soundin.


-- #Zaf# pins Asadine with single, meaty arm and grabs at Asadine's right bicep.


The smell of spice smoke drifts from above, where a smoker is briefly silhouetted by a sparking flame.


-- #Icumen# reaches into his amber-clasped crimson silk shoulder bag, withdrawing a small, square scrap of offwhite linen.


-- Icumen thinks: More blood to add to the collection.


-- #Boros# fidgets excitedly as he watches.


-- #Asadine# lets out some kind of painful, desperate wailing as she's grabbed hold of, trying to keep her grip on the blade though it slips with the blood, her face etched into blind fury and agony.


-- Boros feels somewhat aroused.


-- #Iglamek# sniffs a bit, a lazy smile on his face as he bleeds a bit.


-- Spitting the words as she stands by, gaze never leaving Asadine's countenance, Cesta says to Asadine: You do not deserve to die in the arena. You shame this city with all that you do.


-- #Iglamek# gives a simple, approving nod to Cesta.


-- His fingers digging into Asadine's arm before he gives a hard, jerking twist, #Zaf# earns a gruesome crunch and snap of bone with his efforts.


-- #Azhar# slowly lowers himself into a crowd, face a mask of pain briefly.
The macabre, scar-ravaged man (Azhar) slowly lowers himself into a crowd, face a mask


-- Screaming bloody murder, Asadine shouts: KI-YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!


Voices raising in a brief, heated argument can be heard in the mess hall.


Blood spurts and spits from the wound.


-- Blinking, Iglamek says: Oohhhhhhhhh... that's gonna be hard to set, Asadine.  Yeah.  Ki-yeeeeaaahhhghghgh indeed.


-- #Azhar's# eyes widen a fraction.


-- Simply and contentedly, as he unfolds the small square of linen, Icumen says to Asadine: Be glad you at least get to entertain -one- of the Highborn in your last few moments.


-- The skin pull and tears as #Zaf# holds Asadine down, pulling with a grimace of effort until he yields his prize.


-- Piping up, Azhar says: I'll even clap for you.


-- #Iglamek# withdraws his blade from Asadine shoulder.


-- Wrenching it loose and casting it aside, Zaf drops his dismembered, humanoid arm.


Under Asadine, hot blood pools and puddles, spreading outward rapidly.


-- In a mocking fashion, #Azhar# lazily smacks his palms against each other.


-- #Asadine's# voice hits a new zenith when her arm is torn off, flesh and bone tearing in a disgusting sound.


-- #Cesta# does not flinch or look at the limb as it is torn, keeping her attention to Asadine's face as she screams and is maimed.


-- #Zaf# raises his bloodied fist triumphantly and brings it down on Asadine's face with a wet *shwack*


-- Head canting aside, Azhar exclaims: Oh -my-, bravo!


-- #Boros# scoops up a dismembered, humanoid arm, blood dripping from it. Then he hacks off one of the fingertips.


-- His tone almost fatherly, Iglamek says: You know, if you'd taken my words seriously, and had, you know, learned respect...


-- #Icumen# shifts his feet backward an inch or two, away from the encroaching spread of vitae.


-- #Boros# drops a dismembered, humanoid arm to the floor again.


-- Iglamek asks: I mean this could even be painless.  You know?


-- Musingly, not disgusted in the least by the scene before him, Iglamek says: Or... quick, maybe.


-- Tucking it away, Boros puts his raggedly torn, bloodied finger into his hooded, brown military aba.


-- Each blow a vicious hammerfist, padded with chitin, #Zaf# rains strikes down on Asadine's face time and time again.

-- Iglamek contacts Iolli burned buck-toothed man horribly with the Way.


-- Flashing a rotten, gap-toothed grin, Boros says: Ta remember yeh.
Flashing a rotten, gap-toothed grin, the braided, battle-scarred elf (Boros) says, in rinthi-accented sirihish:
     "Ta remember yeh."


-- #Asadine's# eyes are completely gone, her voice fading down to blubberings of utter madness while blood gushes out of the space where her arm used to take residence, face paling with each spurt.


-- Iglamek severs his psychic contact.


-- Sweetly, Azhar says to Boros: My, a replacement.


-- Casually, Iglamek asks: Hey, can I have a toe?


The beastly, one-eyed mul (Zaf) hits the long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine), barely grazing her body.
A dented round, jade-painted shield clatters to the ground as the long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine) releases it.
The long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine) crumples to the ground.


-- #Cesta# joins in, throwing a single kick at Asadine.


-- #Iglamek# bloodies his boots on Asadine.


-- #Asadine's# face becomes a shoddy mass of broken flesh and bone when the muls fist clobbers into her.


-- #Zaf# turns Asadine's face to pulp, a bloody pull of undiscernable bits.


-- #Boros# chortles, directing it toward Azhar.

-- Zaf hits Asadine.
The beastly, one-eyed mul (Zaf) attacks the long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine).
The beastly, one-eyed mul (Zaf) lightly hits the long-legged, brunette woman (Asadine)'s head.

BEEP


-- Stooping down, #Icumen# dabs a bit of blood from the floor onto the center of his piece of linen, folding it back up as it soaks into and spreads amongst the fibers.


-- Iglamek contacts Asthio with the Way.


-- The clapping growing into a loud, irritating slap, Azhar exclaims: Bra-VO!


-- Zaf feels like that's a perfect bit of stress relief.. what a good start to a day.



-- Iglamek sends to Asthio: *obediently* Lord Templar, there was an accident within the pits.  Unfortunately, Asadine will not be making it to the arena floor... and my boots have a new sheen of claret on the leather.


Shifting torchlight briefly brings into illumination a scene of tiny figures doing battle on sand in the mural frieze on the wall.


-- Lowering it, Cesta stops using her new chitinous shield, silent save for her breathing as she stares down upon the body of the long-legged, brunette woman.


-- Iglamek sends to Asthio: We were informed that this would not be stopped by the guards within the cells by a Lord Templar who's name I didn't catch, but he's easily seen by his scarring.  Quite horrible to behold.


-- Cesta thinks: Many of us, will be dead like that.