Perhaps makeshift wasn't the best word, as it was indeed a marvelous structure. Marble encased the walls and pillars, and hanging ferns dangled from the walls of the benches like little banners. No, what made this arena even considered makeshift was its purpose, for once it was home to the greatest philosophers, orators, and sages the Empire had ever known. But those were gentler times, before the unwashed mob had effectively taken it over for their bloodsports. But such is the power of money.

2 dozen warriors gathered in the ampitheatre, assembled from all reaches of the known world. Some human, some beast, and some in between, yet they all stood with the same look in their eyes, that of determination. If any among them were new to the games, it would be impossible to tell from their demeanor alone. But then again, once steel bgins swinging it usually filters out the young blood... or at least spray it about the arena.

A portly man stepped forward to address the crowd. Regulars to the games know his as Sakkra, a former historian who came up with the idea of using the Theatre Antiquitis as an arena. He had grown rich and fat (but mostly fat) charging the masses to watch the carnage, though it was amazing how he filled the stands so fully when so many claimed to be intellectuals and against such barbary.

"Friends!!! You have paid to watch one of the greatest fights outside the High Games of Caltha, and I shall not disappoint. Here before you stand 24 of the mightiest men and women I could find without actually paying them. Let your cheers embolden them, and please keep your arms behind the walls at all times. I think the yeti is rabid. The rules for this match are simple. You shall be divided into teams based on the region you hail from, and lots shall be cast to see who fights whom individually. Those that live will fight alongside their teammates in the final."

With that, he pulled two dust-encrusted dice from his robe pocket, each with 12 sides and threw them upon the ground.

1d12 => 3
1d12 => 10

*Please let me have gotten the roll command right...

His opponent on the other hand was a brute of a cyclops, Alteffor. His single red eye focused balefully on black, and he clutched his greatsword with anticipation. His armor was worn, almost rusted in some places, but when one is wearing sheets of steel thick enough to armor an entire squad of Legionnaires, it makes up for that. Besides, what sort of crowd would fear a cyclops if his armour weren't caked in dried blood?

(The actual battle will come soon)

ooc:
Not sure if I should use OOC or not, but I will as a courtesy. Looks good, especially the introduction.

Alteffor was fast for a creature of his size, surprising many in the crowd as he took cover behind a nearby pillar. A good thing he did too, as an incoming javelin soon hit his cover, spraying chips of marble and splintered wood about from the impact. He spun around it, breaking into a charge with his sword held level with his head. One good hit was all he needed to make short work of the javelineer.

Unfortunately, things would not be so easy for the brute, as a flurry of javelins flew towards him... Black flinging them as fast as possible, with remarkable accuracy despite not aiming. Of the 6 thrown during the cyclops' charge, 3 hit, one shattered upon his armour, one grazed his shoulder, and the third hit his shin. It stuck deep, the shaft moving with him as he took cover. Senator Callalron to a fellow politician, how it was just like when Senator Maradon got drunk and played Pin the Tail on the Donkey, though hopefully there would be less scrotal kicking this time.

"Come on out, I won't hurt you!" Black jeered as he clutched one of his final 3 spears. "I promise! Hell, I'll even stop fucking your mom!" Members of the crowd laughed, enjoying the brute's mockery. After all, mom jokes are always funny when one isn't the recipient. However Alteffor found little funny in this. He charged once more, swinging his sword wildly.

Black anticipated this, and flung his javelin with all his might. It pierced the cyclops' chest, and the bloodied tip poked out the other end. Yet this did little to stop the chaging brute. 5 meters and two javelins were all that seperated the Northman from experiencing new and frightening worlds of pain. He flung once more, and scored another hit. YES! The spear sunk deep into the cyclops' hand, making him drop his sword on the ground. "All that's left is to skewer him when he picks it... oh shit" Black thought.

Oh shit indeed, as Alteffor did not stop his charge, instead grabbing Black's head with his good hand, gripping it like a man might grip an orange. The shaft of the same spear that stuck in the cyclops' chest pierced the northman as well, piercing his shoulder and joining them together. The brute squeezed the little man's head, chuckling with glee as he toyed with the human. The crowd of course loved it.

Black however, would not submit. He swung his good arm frantically, smacking against the cyclops' face, aiming for his single red eye. Yet as he swung, something happened...

There is a legend among the Northmen, that the pelt of a great beast will grant you its power. Nobody knows if it is true or not, but that myth gained a lot more credence this day. Even now, people attending that fight swear they saw something change in Black that day. Whether or not it's true, the baffling thing is this. The cyclops fell over, yowling in pain. Now if Black had gouged his eye or something along those lines, nobody would bat an eye... but upon the cyclops' face were three claw marks... large ones too, and if you asked anyone not watching what killed the brute, they'd swear he was mauled by a bear.

When the healers came they saw Black... foaming at the mouth like a madman... still joined at the spear on top of his fallen foe... blood soaking his hands and the bearskin he wears. However they didn't have time to worry about it, they took him back to the sages, letting their magic heal his wounds. As for the cyclops, his corpse was fed to the wolves.

What are the teams?

quote:

---

Sakkra tried to impress everyone with:
the great Drysarticus' abscence following his abduction by the savages of the Nordagh tribes

---

"Abduction" indeed. Have you seen the women here?

quote:

---

Black had this to say about Knight Rider:
Hah. Guess I'll still be fucking his mom, afterall.

What are the teams?

---

Riiight, that detail might help

Team 1
Palador the Scarab
Fal the Channeler
Black Mage the Javelineer ----- won
MorbId the Legionnaire
Lashanna the Murmillo
Nina the Secutor
Gainsborough the Bandit
Parcelan the Samnite
Deth the Centurion
Liam the Ogre
Mooj the Minotaur
Jargum the Summoner

Team 2

DoR the Wolf
Willias the Mongrel Shaman
Xyrra the Amazon
Zair the Undead Legionnaire
Janus the Barbarian
Drysart the Berserker
Puggy the Satyr
Lazzay the Dervish
Moogle the Yeti
Alt-F4 the Cyclops ------ dead
Azrael the other Centurion
Vorbis the Bear

1d11 => 4
1d11 => 1

He roars to them, "I'll be seeing you in the finals, right after I'm done with your Mothers! Hahahah!"

[ 11-15-2003: Message edited by: Black ]

quote:

---

We were all impressed when Drysart wrote:
Actually that should be Lashanna versus DoR. If you only rolled 11, you need to skip the one in the list you've already done.

---

Right, right... stupid goddamn numbers I'LL KILL YOU!! Err.. umm... so Lashanna vs. DoR it is. Place your bets anyway.

quote:

---

Liam was listening to Cher while typing:
Team 1 is so badass.

---

Team 1 is mostly fighters the more civilized regions, Team 2 is the savages.

The woman darts through the crowd, slipping between spectators and occasionally falling over one, making good progress despite the trail of her hair and clothing getting caught on seats, decorations and people. She occasionally pops her head up above the massed throngs, scanning the seats around her for two things: an empty seat, and the fluffy-headed knight who had insisted on accompanying her and protecting her from knaves, thieves, and rump-grabbers, despite her assurances that the worst of this lot could be found in the pit itself.
Her red hair wound like a banner through the people, darting, catching, popping up with her head and finally squealing upon sight of one free seat, guarded by nothing more than a mailed fist, an upturned sword placed just so anyone who tried to sit down would carve himself another colon, and the stern face of the fluffy-headed knight she thought she had lost in the crowd.
After clearing away his hand (and the pointy thing), she plunked herself down in the seat, snuggled her bulging bag between her knees and produced two full bags of popcorn, one of which she passed to Leopold, the fluffy knight, and one of which she kept for herself. Making one last check that her hair or robes hadn't gotten caught on anyone, she leaned forward, smiling with painted lips, to watch the remaining fights.
What no one, not even her protector beside her knew, was that the nondescript, bulging brown bag that now rested, nuzzled between her knees, contained all manner of enticing things, every temptation, both broad and precise, that she could think of. A small fortune was concealed there, both in money and jewelry, as well as a few well-penned scrolls, lingirie piled in a lacy lump near the bottom, three boxes of tasty chocolate, and other such things. Oh, and one rabid dwarf she hadn't been feeding. It was protected by no fewer than a dozen different warding spells, and contained her spellbook, stored easily in a side compartment where she could reach it, in case no other allurement did what it was supposed to.
She smiled, enjoying the day with her knight, watching the combatants beat the brains out of each other, sure in the knowledge that, even if just for fun, she would remind people why they once called her an enchanter.

With an annoyed grumble Lashanna made her way into the arena. The steel outer blade on her targe cast an unusual reflection and together with her unusual armour and wide brimmed helmet, created quite a memorable image.

At the same time, the great fenris wolf known as the Death of Rats was being ushered into the arena. He was named not for killing rats as his name implies, which would certainly denote a bit of speed to put fear into his opponents. Rather, he was named for his introductory fight against the Plague Rats, a group of rogues that served as his first fight as well as his heartiest meal. Crowds were warned when the great beast was fighting, lest their togas become accidentally bloodstained.

The Empress signalled the beginning of the match, and Lashanna acted quickly. Like a discus, she hurled her shield towards the beast. The perfectly balanced steel whizzed through the air, causing a slight whistle that was quickly drowned out by the crowd. Yet DoR was fast as well, and leaped over the shield, losing only a small tuft of fur to the bladed disc, while Lashanna had lot her best means of defense.

The wolf lunged, baring his fangs with a cruel snarl. Lashanna hoped to strike first, raising a bronze vambrace to block while thrusting her gladius forward. Both efforts were marginally successful, at best. While the wolf did bite into steel and not flesh, such was the strength of the great beast's jaws that it partially crused the metal, causing a wail of pain from the woman. Likewise, her attack hit, sinking deep into the wolf's right shoulder, yet it seemed to feel nothing.

With a feat of strength and a grunt, Lashanna wrestled with the wolf, eventually managing to throw it aside. Though the price she paid to do this was the loss of her shield-arm vambrace, as well as a good deal of skin from her forearm. Blood flowed freely over her hands, one coated with her own blood, one coated with the dripping blood of her foe.

Lashanna scrambled for her shield, knowing flesh against fang to be a bad combination. Yet as she did, she felt an immense pain upon her ankle. Death of Rats had lept forward, clamping his jaws down upon the gladiator's ankle. With her free leg she kicked at the beast, though her foot did little to dislodge her attacker. Were she a neophyte, she would be done for. Luckily she was not.

With a determined glare in her eyes she planted her good foot upon the ground and pushed herself towards the wolf. Lashanna screamed loudly as her leg was driven deeper into the wolf's mouth, his great fangs tearing her flesh to almost the bone. Once in range, she thrust her gladius forwards, splitting the wolf's brow. Blood flowed like wine at a Bacchanalian orgy, coating Lashanna from head to waist.

And with a final shudder, the great wolf fell limp. The fickle mob did not mourn him, but rather cheered his slayer. The healers rushed to Lashanna's aid, prying her leg free and taking her to the sages lest her wounds bleed her to death. There would be no healers for the Death of Rats though, as the arena slaves hauled the carcass away. The games hold no place for those who do not win them.

2d10 => 4

quote:

---

Sakkra wrote this stupid crap:
Rolling for next fighters.

* 2d10 => 4*

---

Edit: Damnit, didn't realize it gave the sum. I call do-over!

1d10 => 1
1d10 => 3

quote:

---

Sakkra had this to say about Optimus Prime:
Edit: Damnit, didn't realize it gave the sum. I call do-over!

* 1d10 => 1*
* 1d10 => 3*

---

Scarab vs Undead?

And why do the Savages keep losing? We roxxorupo!

quote:

---

Gunslinger Moogle had this to say about pies:
Scarab vs Undead?

And why do the Savages keep losing? We roxxorupo!

---

Yes, and you keep losing because of the very complex system I use to determine winners which isn't a coin toss.

quote:

---

Sakkra stumbled drunkenly to the keyboard and typed:
Yes, and you keep losing because of the very complex system I use to determine winners which isn't a coin toss.

---

I hope its not a popularity contest.

Cause then Im scarab food

[ 11-16-2003: Message edited by: Cavalier- ]

quote:

---

Drysart got all f'ed up on Angel Dust and wrote:
"Abduction" indeed. Have you seen the women here?

---

And as for this, who do you think had you abducted? It cost me a pretty denarius to have you snatched fromy our bed while you slept so i could resume my reign here.

quote:

---

Abbikat attempted to be funny by writing:
I swear.. I'm gunna kill him next time he logs himself in then forgets to log out after commenting on something....

---

I bet you get mad when he leaves the toilet seat up, too, instead of just checking it before you sit down.

and Sakkra, nice job ;D

quote:

---

Slayer Densetsu wrote, obviously thinking too hard:
I bet you get mad when he leaves the toilet seat up, too, instead of just checking it before you sit down.

---

Actually no... 2 bathrooms in the house... He has one and I have one.

(surprisingly, his is probably the cleaner of the 2 as well....)

quote:

---

Vise the Stompy got all f'ed up on Angel Dust and wrote:
Quick Question: What is going on here? *I have been gone for 3 and half days and this confuses me to no end *

---

I made a thread where I assigned people character classes from the game Gladius out of boredom. Then, in an attempt to quiet my boredom, I decided to have them battle. Now I'm stuck trying to figure out good points for the third round, as I don't really know Zair or Pallador well.

quote:

---

From the book of Sakkra, chapter 3, verse 16:
I made a thread where I assigned people character classes from the game Gladius out of boredom. Then, in an attempt to quiet my boredom, I decided to have them battle. Now I'm stuck trying to figure out good points for the third round, as I don't really know Zair or Pallador well.

---

Hmm, Sakkra, oh games master. I do believe you forgot one fighter? I was told that I was to be given weapons but the people keep sending me to the lion cages. I say Sakkra, Sakkra my dear fellow. Ooooh, hello Mr. Kitty, hey you're kinda big upclose... Lion, ah!!!!!

*Runs off screaming for the fighters to defend his person.*

The first fighter brought in was known as Zair. He (or would that be it?) was one of the unliving, a mere skeleton of a gladiator stuck between life and death. But such is the fate of those who fight in Mordare's domain, but that's a story for another day. His bones held no meat or sinew on them, yet they were stained blood red in some places, charred black in others, and stark white in others. He wore the armor and emblem of the dead Emporer Taran, who sent many legions to their death to defeat the Barbarian Lord. But that too is a story for another time. The armour hung on him perfectly, despite his lack of mass. if not, he would likely look like a child trying to wear his father's clothes. In his hands he clutched a rusty pick hammer, likely scavenged from a defeated foe.

The second fighter was less human than the first, but not by much. A giant scarab beetle, known by the name Palador. Sakkra grinned as it entered, for scarabs were highly sought after to participate in the games. One might think of a mere beetle when scarabs are mentioned, but not those of the Southern Expanse. These scarabs are large as wagons, with great scythe-like mandibles, a chitin so thick as to resist even Imperial steel, and the speed of its smaller brethren.

The gladiators did not even give each other so much as a glance before they attacked. Palador spat a great glob, which hurtled through the air. Zair saw this, and diverted it with a skeletal hand. The spittle was sent flying into the stands, sending the patrons scrambling for cover. A good thing too, as where it impacted, the spittle began to eat through the wooden benches and, as evidenced by Zair's now-missing left hand, would have likely killed any unfortunate people it hit.

Yet the skeleton did not flinch, for why would the dead feel pain? He charged forward, swinging his hammer at the beetle's head. It clashed upon his enemy, and there was a sound quite similar to steel hitting steel as the blow glanced off. Palador skittered back slightly, obviously fazed by the blow, but not much. He charged forward quickly, clamping his great mandibles together with Zair between them. His ancient armor crumbled like paper at the great beast's attack, yet Zair was fast to react, hitting the scarab thrice across the head in quick succession.

Palador released the undead, and the extent of the damage could be seen. The armor was useless, ripped open in many places, and fractures could be seen in Zair's spine through the holes. Yet the fighters were even. Even as Palador skittered back, it stumbled slightly, and large cracks covered the beast's carapace.

Zair used this as an opportunity, and charged his for again. He swung his hammer and hit soundly, this time snapping Palador's left mandible off. Almost the entire crowd covered their ears as the scarab shrieked in pain, yet none looked away for fear of missing the spectacle. Palador responded in kind, swiping his remaining mandible at Zair, and managing to sever the skeleton's legs at the kneecap.

Not wanting to lose momentum, or maybe it was just bloodlust, the scarab attacked again. He swung his head to the side, and struck true, and soon Zair's skull was impaled upon the beast's mandible, pierced helmet and all.

But the crowd did not count either fighter as having won or lost yet, for strange things accompany strange fighters. Even as Zair was suspended there, his arms and leg-stumps dangling like a puppet, his eye sockets glowed a baleful red. Palador skittered back slightly in instinctual fear, bringing his foe with him and causing his bones to clank together like a blasphemous windchime. Yet Zair did not move for nearly a minute, until finally he let out a mad cackling, so foul it should not be heard by the ears of the living. The beast skittered back once more, trying to flee but unable, until the skeleton swung once more, imbedding the spike of his hammer into the scarab's brain...

The healers came, though it was unlikely they could do anything for the unliving... and the scarab was beyond healing, magical or otherwise. Yet Zair refused them, pulling his head free. Strangely, his hand and spine were healed, as though the bones mended themself. With a bemused chuckle as he looked at his fallen enemy, he began knuckle-walking out of the arena, the magic of Mordare likely tending to his injuries.

1d9 => 8
1d9 => 7