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Iliad
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Iliad
by Guest Sat Feb 18, 2012 12:09 am
In a not-too-distant future on a smoking crag of a barren wasteland home to many a battle, where a deep crimson sun shines over a world that God abandoned long ago, two warriors stand opposite from each other on symmetrical plateaus.
A Cretan-Amestrian and a Xingese-Drachman. Each defined by their pallor and gear; each tall, each with their own definition. The Cretan-Amestrian stood atop his own plateau looking to the figure on the other; scowling into the ever-dark horizon, trying to pick out further details with already-hawk-like eyes but to no avail. He knew nothing of the man - save that he was another soul in this empty wasteland.
Clad in black leather - a coat, a jacket, trousers and a vest - with many weapons strapped to his visage and a similarly-coloured pair of boots, the Cretan-Amestrian stood there atop the horizon, silent and stalwart, as if he were some twisted defender of a rock that truly belonged to no-one but the world himself. Beneath his boots, bland grey dust and pebbles crunched and turns, drawing indistinct etchings and patterns in the grit that had once been a building, a monument, perhaps even a city. Everything here was a testament to mankind's fragility; how that everything they had built was swept away in but a single blast.
Would he fight the Xingese-Drachman? That remained yet to be seen. As facts dwindled with his sanity and perception within the man's mind, he unleashed the first noise of the day - or was it a night? With a sun blotted out by the ashes of fallen comrades, it became increasingly harder to tell as the days went past. A sigh. He knew a few things. First, and foremost, his name; a label of whatever identity he clung to for each day of the week. Ayden Derocha. Not too long ago, he had been important. A prominent figure in the perishing of many souls, the demise of an entire planet. To say the least.
First, the land abandoned them. Animals followed a few days after, all crawling into pits so they could die in peace amongst the remains of their intact brethren. What few humans that hadn't been wiped out by the blasts had been raped, tortured, or killed. Some even driven insane, unfit to handle their new state of mind. Even the bandits turned against each other out of fear, loneliness, and even hunger... and then, there was them.
Ayden hadn't seen another human being in months. Or was it years? Possibly decades? He couldn't remember. Unlike his body, his memory had faded, withered, and faltered with the last of this world - and whatever hope he'd had previously for redemption. But for some reason, he had prevailed on. He hadn't aged a day. Immortality held the silver-haired wanderer in its grasp now; and whilst some had wished for it, they didn't know the true burden, the real price to pay. To be immortal was to be eternally alone. To have no-one to hold. He had loved, once; and similarly, he had lost. He had fought, he had killed; he had died, and he had been reborn. He had felt immeasurable pain, and knew the joys of blissful happiness.
And now it was just emptiness.
Within him sat a void. A void insatiable when it came to anything he could consume or do in futile attempts to satisfy himself, bring a feeling of completion to his being and psyche. No matter how much he ate, how far he walked, how many he killed, how long he toiled under the beams of a sun long-dead, he still felt empty. He felt cold and alone, and now... companionship was on the horizon. This man who may as well have been a reflection of him, absolutely and completely, for all he could tell.
Curiosity scratched at him like a cat waiting for it's master to tend to its hunger. A dog rearing and ready to be let into the open. Who was this figure? Why was he here? What did he want? Questions rocketed back and forth through his head like a fusillade, a barrage of rifle rounds ricocheting eternally from the walls of his cavernous mind.
But for now?
Ayden simply stopped... and he stared. Unlike the actions of a ghost of himself that he couldn't remember, a younger, louder, far less scarred and knowledgeable version of his own very being, he would play it safe. He would anticipate and analyse the man's movement, the man's reaction... but for now... he waited for the Xingese-Drachman's response.
The pieces were on the table. It was simply time for the pair to move them.
A Cretan-Amestrian and a Xingese-Drachman. Each defined by their pallor and gear; each tall, each with their own definition. The Cretan-Amestrian stood atop his own plateau looking to the figure on the other; scowling into the ever-dark horizon, trying to pick out further details with already-hawk-like eyes but to no avail. He knew nothing of the man - save that he was another soul in this empty wasteland.
Clad in black leather - a coat, a jacket, trousers and a vest - with many weapons strapped to his visage and a similarly-coloured pair of boots, the Cretan-Amestrian stood there atop the horizon, silent and stalwart, as if he were some twisted defender of a rock that truly belonged to no-one but the world himself. Beneath his boots, bland grey dust and pebbles crunched and turns, drawing indistinct etchings and patterns in the grit that had once been a building, a monument, perhaps even a city. Everything here was a testament to mankind's fragility; how that everything they had built was swept away in but a single blast.
Would he fight the Xingese-Drachman? That remained yet to be seen. As facts dwindled with his sanity and perception within the man's mind, he unleashed the first noise of the day - or was it a night? With a sun blotted out by the ashes of fallen comrades, it became increasingly harder to tell as the days went past. A sigh. He knew a few things. First, and foremost, his name; a label of whatever identity he clung to for each day of the week. Ayden Derocha. Not too long ago, he had been important. A prominent figure in the perishing of many souls, the demise of an entire planet. To say the least.
First, the land abandoned them. Animals followed a few days after, all crawling into pits so they could die in peace amongst the remains of their intact brethren. What few humans that hadn't been wiped out by the blasts had been raped, tortured, or killed. Some even driven insane, unfit to handle their new state of mind. Even the bandits turned against each other out of fear, loneliness, and even hunger... and then, there was them.
Ayden hadn't seen another human being in months. Or was it years? Possibly decades? He couldn't remember. Unlike his body, his memory had faded, withered, and faltered with the last of this world - and whatever hope he'd had previously for redemption. But for some reason, he had prevailed on. He hadn't aged a day. Immortality held the silver-haired wanderer in its grasp now; and whilst some had wished for it, they didn't know the true burden, the real price to pay. To be immortal was to be eternally alone. To have no-one to hold. He had loved, once; and similarly, he had lost. He had fought, he had killed; he had died, and he had been reborn. He had felt immeasurable pain, and knew the joys of blissful happiness.
And now it was just emptiness.
Within him sat a void. A void insatiable when it came to anything he could consume or do in futile attempts to satisfy himself, bring a feeling of completion to his being and psyche. No matter how much he ate, how far he walked, how many he killed, how long he toiled under the beams of a sun long-dead, he still felt empty. He felt cold and alone, and now... companionship was on the horizon. This man who may as well have been a reflection of him, absolutely and completely, for all he could tell.
Curiosity scratched at him like a cat waiting for it's master to tend to its hunger. A dog rearing and ready to be let into the open. Who was this figure? Why was he here? What did he want? Questions rocketed back and forth through his head like a fusillade, a barrage of rifle rounds ricocheting eternally from the walls of his cavernous mind.
But for now?
Ayden simply stopped... and he stared. Unlike the actions of a ghost of himself that he couldn't remember, a younger, louder, far less scarred and knowledgeable version of his own very being, he would play it safe. He would anticipate and analyse the man's movement, the man's reaction... but for now... he waited for the Xingese-Drachman's response.
The pieces were on the table. It was simply time for the pair to move them.
Guest- Guest
Re: Iliad
by Guest Sun Feb 19, 2012 2:29 am
And there stood the form of the Xingese-Drachman. His eyes were unfocused, a horrific leer upon his face as he tread unevenly towards the Cretan-Amestrian. Perhaps he was recognized, before, an entity that had some meaning. But here? Here he was just mad.
Insane
Wretched.
This whole place was just a massive playground, the ruins being the aftermath of too much roughhousing. Such carnage, such glory, such ... madness? It was all too wonderful, most likely. So wondrous that he had surrendered his mind to it, and all that emerged from his mind was an endless peal of laughter at varying pitches. At times it would be guttural, at times it rose several tones higher. Either way, he was laughing and drawing closer.
Unlike the newest victim (or intended to be) that stood before him, Hei was clad in what appeared to . . . plate armor. No, that wasn't it. It was clearly heavy tactical body armor, that was a given, all black too. But, despite it being such armor, it seemed to be made of metal . . . or at least, this armor, all this plating took on the appearance of some knightly form. Well, as knightly as it can be despite being pitch black.
In his right hand, which now rose to place this object atop him, he held what clearly was a helmet, but it seemed to be outdated. Something one would find from ages past, but it was anything but a relic of the past. It was a reproduction, for one, and then modified for two for this individual's use. What did he intend to do, armored like a black knight? Not that it mattered, as the black-armored Xing-Drachman now hid his face behind several centimeters worth of metal and padding. Oddly, the solitary thing that resembled an eye hole, a slit cut horizontally near the top of the thing, began to glow red . . .
In his left hand, he clutched a blood stained zweihänder, or something that was resembling that greatsword. Honestly, it was more a giant metal bar that had been sharpened to have cutting edges as well as a point, still considering how it had blood and the remains of innards draped about it, it was clearly a still effective weapon.
Upon his back, were other tools of destruction ... but while he was adorned in armor, atop this was a black cloak to finish it all off. There were noticeable bulges about him that clearly was not part of his defenses, in other words signalling they were weapons he carried upon his person, mostly strung about him and carried upon the back.
And so the Black figure drew closer, maniacal laughter still echoing from within the metal shell he had encased himself in. . . . What was to become of this? A crimson line, emitting a seething ... searing gaze, was all that could be discerned now about this individual's expression. Glaring red, striking against all this black. Black, black, black. Well, red AND black. Red from his eyes, and red from all the blood stained atop the black armor, black helmet, black sword and black cloak hiding other black weapons.
If one could see his expression, one could see that his smile was morphing into something even more hideous. Quite a feat, considering how unsettling his leer earlier would have been to a normal person.
Feet trudge through rotting flesh, maggots crawling about. This place was indeed desolate, that didn't mean filth and decay weren't around. Or where they not here originally, and suddenly came to be? It didn't matter to the Black Figure, as he just marched along, still taking tottering steps while giggling ... pardon, cackling. Feet through sludge, feet through rot, feet through blood, as he just walked onward, heedless to the man in front.
How he wanted to just kill. It'd been a while, y'know? What with everything being 'dead.'
Insane
Wretched.
This whole place was just a massive playground, the ruins being the aftermath of too much roughhousing. Such carnage, such glory, such ... madness? It was all too wonderful, most likely. So wondrous that he had surrendered his mind to it, and all that emerged from his mind was an endless peal of laughter at varying pitches. At times it would be guttural, at times it rose several tones higher. Either way, he was laughing and drawing closer.
Unlike the newest victim (or intended to be) that stood before him, Hei was clad in what appeared to . . . plate armor. No, that wasn't it. It was clearly heavy tactical body armor, that was a given, all black too. But, despite it being such armor, it seemed to be made of metal . . . or at least, this armor, all this plating took on the appearance of some knightly form. Well, as knightly as it can be despite being pitch black.
In his right hand, which now rose to place this object atop him, he held what clearly was a helmet, but it seemed to be outdated. Something one would find from ages past, but it was anything but a relic of the past. It was a reproduction, for one, and then modified for two for this individual's use. What did he intend to do, armored like a black knight? Not that it mattered, as the black-armored Xing-Drachman now hid his face behind several centimeters worth of metal and padding. Oddly, the solitary thing that resembled an eye hole, a slit cut horizontally near the top of the thing, began to glow red . . .
In his left hand, he clutched a blood stained zweihänder, or something that was resembling that greatsword. Honestly, it was more a giant metal bar that had been sharpened to have cutting edges as well as a point, still considering how it had blood and the remains of innards draped about it, it was clearly a still effective weapon.
Upon his back, were other tools of destruction ... but while he was adorned in armor, atop this was a black cloak to finish it all off. There were noticeable bulges about him that clearly was not part of his defenses, in other words signalling they were weapons he carried upon his person, mostly strung about him and carried upon the back.
And so the Black figure drew closer, maniacal laughter still echoing from within the metal shell he had encased himself in. . . . What was to become of this? A crimson line, emitting a seething ... searing gaze, was all that could be discerned now about this individual's expression. Glaring red, striking against all this black. Black, black, black. Well, red AND black. Red from his eyes, and red from all the blood stained atop the black armor, black helmet, black sword and black cloak hiding other black weapons.
If one could see his expression, one could see that his smile was morphing into something even more hideous. Quite a feat, considering how unsettling his leer earlier would have been to a normal person.
Feet trudge through rotting flesh, maggots crawling about. This place was indeed desolate, that didn't mean filth and decay weren't around. Or where they not here originally, and suddenly came to be? It didn't matter to the Black Figure, as he just marched along, still taking tottering steps while giggling ... pardon, cackling. Feet through sludge, feet through rot, feet through blood, as he just walked onward, heedless to the man in front.
How he wanted to just kill. It'd been a while, y'know? What with everything being 'dead.'
Guest- Guest
Re: Iliad
by Guest Sun Feb 19, 2012 2:36 pm
One would think that perhaps the Ayden you know has since calmed, from the account of his aged, wiser figure. Perhaps his insanity has settled? Perhaps he's finally seen the light? Perhaps the waves' eternal ebb and flow in the pool of the mind have finally calmed, and the water is still once more? Perhaps... perhaps redemption is yet on the horizon for the silver-haired murderer?
No. No, no, no, no, no. Collection and charisma do not equal redemption.
A figure garbed in black opposite a figure garbed in black. A smirk carved its way across an unnaturally pale face; weak pink lips curved into a wicked, evil smile. The smirk gestated and germinated, until eventually, it rose to the grin; and like the statue of Christ the Redeemer himself, feet a shoulder width apart, Ayden rose his hands to his side, arms equidistant, proportional, and raised to his side.
The figure opened his mouth. Pale, chapped, cut, parched lips. His jaw hung down, and his gullet opened wide, and endless black void. And from within it, rose not words, but just sound. Sheer, sonorous rage. A proclamation, a declaration, an exclamation. A beacon; something to make the Xingese-Drachman, his fellow Black Figure, afraid. The pair were to fight. They were to do battle here today. In all his years, he'd never felt a feeling of impending combat wrack his body so strongly. "GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" It begun as a single call. No language, no reason; translated into one feeling, one emotion, universal no matter what you spoke and what you heard: a call to arms.
They were, for all the other cared, the last two men alive across this barren wasteland of a planet. "GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" The last couple whose hearts beat beneath a dead, bleeding sun. "GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" Over and over and over, the sound came. The call, the horn, the ringing; if that didn't make it obvious, the figure in black leather didn't know what would.
His arms fell down at his sides like pendulums finally completing their eternal arc. Like the Xingese-Drachman, he had weapons. Weapons to parallel and cross with that huge bloodied zweihander. His clothes too were spattered with the lifeblood of corpses he had left in his wake. They hadn't crossed paths before, yet both knew that their calling was to ensure that the other never left this smoking battlefield alive.
Beneath the plateau were several smaller ledges, edges, which could be easily scaled by a now-learned survivalist that the assassin was. Although, the term of his former title is perhaps no longer fitting for him; alas, these men are the last two alive, so yet is it still valid to call the silver-haired man an assassin? Perhaps a survivor. A warrior. He who defied the world's very urges; he who was lonely for oh so long, and now that companionship is on the horizon, he who will murder for the very last time...?
Tension collected in flexed heels, thin ankles; a frame more gaunt than usual, a frame far more slender than naturally healthy. Not emaciated. Tall, stretched, thin, but not emaciated, not malnourished. Although, what was nourished, in a world where there is no food, no water, no prey, no animals...? All resources had long since been exhausted. They were alone. Even the grass had abandoned them; there were no visible sides for it to be greener on.
He leapt, and quickly descended. Ledge to ledge, precipice to precipice. Jumping six, seven, maybe eight feet at a time; a skilled climber, fresh scars lining his arms, legs, and torso. That much he knew. He'd lived long enough to know that the path less travelled was highly preferable to the beaten track... although that much didn't matter now. Legs usually jarred bent and flexed to absorb shock; there was no pain, just anticipated impact. The final landing, he crouched into, twisting in mid-air to face the man, serpent-like tongue hanging from the assassin's mouth as he hissed a sick battlecry. No words, once more. Just sound.
Thud. The figure landed, still crouched into a ball. The Xingese-Drachman was yet descending. Hands went to ankles closer than they usually were; each wrapped around familiar, worn hilts of two pistols. The chrome of the frames had since faded into black, raw grip-marks; copies, imprints, etchings of Ayden's very finger and hand prints were barely visible along the black inlay on the hilt. A single yellow smiling cartoon face. A single red drop of blood descending from the left. Asmodeus. A single cerulean blue tear, like the very warrior's eyes themselves, descending from the inlay on the right. Astaroth.
The Children. Once a remarkably similar yet customised sidearm. M1911 .45 ACP pistols. Ayden knew everything about them and more. They were his friends, his allies, his weaponry... they were extensions to his very own limbs. Fresh-loaded, safety flipped off, drawn and held at the man's side as his full figure extended once more. A hand from the right went to the gun on the left. It drew back the slide; a single round clicked into the chamber. Seven loaded. A hand from the left went to the gun on the right. Wreathed around a symmetrical slide; another sole round slid into a totally different chamber. Seven loaded.
The smell of polished brass and chrome hung in the air. The assassin took a long draw of it, and exhaled in a giggle. Faint at first, it escalated, and grew, gestating within the very throat of the man... "...hahahaha... hahahahaha!" Becoming more dynamic with every instant. "GYAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAH!" Click. Simultaneously, two hammers eased back and into place. Rounds live, just itching, waiting to be fired. Fingers almost trembled as they coiled themselves around the triggers.
...no.
He was not to attack. This man was coming to him, advancing on his terrain. A matter of honour; he'd made the call, and the terms would be respected. They would draw up, make their peace with whichever god they worshipped... and then... and then... and then...
No. No, no, no, no, no. Collection and charisma do not equal redemption.
A figure garbed in black opposite a figure garbed in black. A smirk carved its way across an unnaturally pale face; weak pink lips curved into a wicked, evil smile. The smirk gestated and germinated, until eventually, it rose to the grin; and like the statue of Christ the Redeemer himself, feet a shoulder width apart, Ayden rose his hands to his side, arms equidistant, proportional, and raised to his side.
The figure opened his mouth. Pale, chapped, cut, parched lips. His jaw hung down, and his gullet opened wide, and endless black void. And from within it, rose not words, but just sound. Sheer, sonorous rage. A proclamation, a declaration, an exclamation. A beacon; something to make the Xingese-Drachman, his fellow Black Figure, afraid. The pair were to fight. They were to do battle here today. In all his years, he'd never felt a feeling of impending combat wrack his body so strongly. "GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" It begun as a single call. No language, no reason; translated into one feeling, one emotion, universal no matter what you spoke and what you heard: a call to arms.
They were, for all the other cared, the last two men alive across this barren wasteland of a planet. "GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" The last couple whose hearts beat beneath a dead, bleeding sun. "GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" Over and over and over, the sound came. The call, the horn, the ringing; if that didn't make it obvious, the figure in black leather didn't know what would.
His arms fell down at his sides like pendulums finally completing their eternal arc. Like the Xingese-Drachman, he had weapons. Weapons to parallel and cross with that huge bloodied zweihander. His clothes too were spattered with the lifeblood of corpses he had left in his wake. They hadn't crossed paths before, yet both knew that their calling was to ensure that the other never left this smoking battlefield alive.
Beneath the plateau were several smaller ledges, edges, which could be easily scaled by a now-learned survivalist that the assassin was. Although, the term of his former title is perhaps no longer fitting for him; alas, these men are the last two alive, so yet is it still valid to call the silver-haired man an assassin? Perhaps a survivor. A warrior. He who defied the world's very urges; he who was lonely for oh so long, and now that companionship is on the horizon, he who will murder for the very last time...?
Tension collected in flexed heels, thin ankles; a frame more gaunt than usual, a frame far more slender than naturally healthy. Not emaciated. Tall, stretched, thin, but not emaciated, not malnourished. Although, what was nourished, in a world where there is no food, no water, no prey, no animals...? All resources had long since been exhausted. They were alone. Even the grass had abandoned them; there were no visible sides for it to be greener on.
He leapt, and quickly descended. Ledge to ledge, precipice to precipice. Jumping six, seven, maybe eight feet at a time; a skilled climber, fresh scars lining his arms, legs, and torso. That much he knew. He'd lived long enough to know that the path less travelled was highly preferable to the beaten track... although that much didn't matter now. Legs usually jarred bent and flexed to absorb shock; there was no pain, just anticipated impact. The final landing, he crouched into, twisting in mid-air to face the man, serpent-like tongue hanging from the assassin's mouth as he hissed a sick battlecry. No words, once more. Just sound.
Thud. The figure landed, still crouched into a ball. The Xingese-Drachman was yet descending. Hands went to ankles closer than they usually were; each wrapped around familiar, worn hilts of two pistols. The chrome of the frames had since faded into black, raw grip-marks; copies, imprints, etchings of Ayden's very finger and hand prints were barely visible along the black inlay on the hilt. A single yellow smiling cartoon face. A single red drop of blood descending from the left. Asmodeus. A single cerulean blue tear, like the very warrior's eyes themselves, descending from the inlay on the right. Astaroth.
The Children. Once a remarkably similar yet customised sidearm. M1911 .45 ACP pistols. Ayden knew everything about them and more. They were his friends, his allies, his weaponry... they were extensions to his very own limbs. Fresh-loaded, safety flipped off, drawn and held at the man's side as his full figure extended once more. A hand from the right went to the gun on the left. It drew back the slide; a single round clicked into the chamber. Seven loaded. A hand from the left went to the gun on the right. Wreathed around a symmetrical slide; another sole round slid into a totally different chamber. Seven loaded.
The smell of polished brass and chrome hung in the air. The assassin took a long draw of it, and exhaled in a giggle. Faint at first, it escalated, and grew, gestating within the very throat of the man... "...hahahaha... hahahahaha!" Becoming more dynamic with every instant. "GYAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAH!" Click. Simultaneously, two hammers eased back and into place. Rounds live, just itching, waiting to be fired. Fingers almost trembled as they coiled themselves around the triggers.
...no.
He was not to attack. This man was coming to him, advancing on his terrain. A matter of honour; he'd made the call, and the terms would be respected. They would draw up, make their peace with whichever god they worshipped... and then... and then... and then...
ALL HELL WOULD BREAK LOOSE.
Guest- Guest
Re: Iliad
by Guest Sat Mar 03, 2012 12:19 am
A game of patience, it was? Well, Hei could always indulge in patience! Patience was a virtue! VIRTU WAS NEEDED TO SAVE ONE'S SOUL FROM DAMNATION. After all, if he went to hell, while he'd have friends, there wouldn't be any unsuspecting victims to kill! So he had to ATONE.
REPENT!! BEG FORGIVENESS!!!
Yes! TODAY WAS SUNDAY. HE MUST PRAY. PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY kill PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY maim PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY stab PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY attack PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY! PRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY FOR FORGIVENESSS FROM DAH LAAAAAOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRD.
And so his weapons were placed forth, as though an offering to wicked Mother Terra, first came the all-black zweihander, greatsword of his origin. Then came the silver claymore, representation of his honor. After that came a large halberd which seemed to be a bit more intricately designed and seemed to have a single-shot grenade launcher somehow inextricably attached to the damn thing. And then his katana, at his left side, the rapier from his right, the dao before him. The AK dropped down, as he went onto his knees, the AA dropped aside as his left arm drew the hand towards his chest, the bandoleers of grenades fell off next as he drew is right hand.
And yet, he still had more weapons, why he carried all of these, he did not know. But now, he was kneeling in this barren wasteland, helmeted head tilted downward, hands together palm first in a sign of prayer, weapons impaled all around him including at least three more swords that had come off his back and miraculously stuck point first in the ground behind him. YES, he could feel it! He could feel his sins wash away, as he prepared himself to stain his armor, his weapons, and his soul with the blood of the land, his enemy and that of his own flesh. A cycle of tarnish and polish, of rampant chaos and inner peace, of insanity claiming innocent lives, to everything dying. Wait, no that's not how it's supposed to go~!
Damn, he'd messed up! THE LORD, SATAN, WAS DISPLEASED. THE ANTI-ANTI-ANTI-CHRIST WOULD NO LONGER ACCEPT HIM AS THE SEVENTEENTH! HE WAS A SHAMEFUL, UNGRATEFUL BASTARD WHO HAD NO PLACE IN THE WORLD. And so, being the rebel, made his prayers to the Heavenly Father that resided in the earth - Ishvala or whatever its name is.
Lord Uranus and sister Neptune would be pleased that he had made his decisions, casting off the lit path of the Devil, a path of moral greatness, and instead fought against societal conventions and opted instead to be himself. Value individuality! YES! HE WAS THE INDIVIDUAL. To feel alive, he had to be his own person, and if there were other people, then he could be himself. Thus all life had to cease to exist, this was known as the Roussian Doctrine - And he was a staunch believer in it, so much he set himself on fire and hugged the man who wrote it! Or was it a woman? Glorious and glamorous woman!
Either way, now he had fallen silent, quivering a bit, as though he were crying, while at his knees and locked in a gesture of pray. He was only overcome with joy at the future slaughter for his redemption, be it his kill or the other man's! Why, you could see tears of blood stream out from his helmet!! He truly was a despicable creature, allowing his sacred ritual affect his physical state so as to besmirch the venerable traditions! BLASPHEMY~! It fueled his devotion further, and thus furthered his prayer!!
REPENT!! BEG FORGIVENESS!!!
Yes! TODAY WAS SUNDAY. HE MUST PRAY. PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY kill PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY maim PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY stab PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY attack PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY PRAY! PRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY FOR FORGIVENESSS FROM DAH LAAAAAOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRD.
And so his weapons were placed forth, as though an offering to wicked Mother Terra, first came the all-black zweihander, greatsword of his origin. Then came the silver claymore, representation of his honor. After that came a large halberd which seemed to be a bit more intricately designed and seemed to have a single-shot grenade launcher somehow inextricably attached to the damn thing. And then his katana, at his left side, the rapier from his right, the dao before him. The AK dropped down, as he went onto his knees, the AA dropped aside as his left arm drew the hand towards his chest, the bandoleers of grenades fell off next as he drew is right hand.
And yet, he still had more weapons, why he carried all of these, he did not know. But now, he was kneeling in this barren wasteland, helmeted head tilted downward, hands together palm first in a sign of prayer, weapons impaled all around him including at least three more swords that had come off his back and miraculously stuck point first in the ground behind him. YES, he could feel it! He could feel his sins wash away, as he prepared himself to stain his armor, his weapons, and his soul with the blood of the land, his enemy and that of his own flesh. A cycle of tarnish and polish, of rampant chaos and inner peace, of insanity claiming innocent lives, to everything dying. Wait, no that's not how it's supposed to go~!
Damn, he'd messed up! THE LORD, SATAN, WAS DISPLEASED. THE ANTI-ANTI-ANTI-CHRIST WOULD NO LONGER ACCEPT HIM AS THE SEVENTEENTH! HE WAS A SHAMEFUL, UNGRATEFUL BASTARD WHO HAD NO PLACE IN THE WORLD. And so, being the rebel, made his prayers to the Heavenly Father that resided in the earth - Ishvala or whatever its name is.
Lord Uranus and sister Neptune would be pleased that he had made his decisions, casting off the lit path of the Devil, a path of moral greatness, and instead fought against societal conventions and opted instead to be himself. Value individuality! YES! HE WAS THE INDIVIDUAL. To feel alive, he had to be his own person, and if there were other people, then he could be himself. Thus all life had to cease to exist, this was known as the Roussian Doctrine - And he was a staunch believer in it, so much he set himself on fire and hugged the man who wrote it! Or was it a woman? Glorious and glamorous woman!
Either way, now he had fallen silent, quivering a bit, as though he were crying, while at his knees and locked in a gesture of pray. He was only overcome with joy at the future slaughter for his redemption, be it his kill or the other man's! Why, you could see tears of blood stream out from his helmet!! He truly was a despicable creature, allowing his sacred ritual affect his physical state so as to besmirch the venerable traditions! BLASPHEMY~! It fueled his devotion further, and thus furthered his prayer!!
Guest- Guest
Re: Iliad
by Guest Sun Mar 04, 2012 12:16 pm
The Xingese-Drachman had knelt at Ayden's feet, and, suddenly, he felt... recognition. Familiarity, almost nostalgia; an odd sense of deja vu flooding back into him. Perhaps not because he had known this man in a past life, beyond this boredom and apparent immortality, but maybe because the man reminded him of the human race. It had been oh-so-long since he'd had contact; without socialising, man grows delirious and quickly sick. Only the hardiest of individuals can survive absolutely alone.
Or perhaps the Xingese-Drachman reminded him of himself? Ayden cocked his head as he wondered if this was some self-perpetuating cycle. Was he an old model, the one survivalist to be finally outlived and replaced? Would this new, unusual, familiar yet foreign entity dethrone him and take immortality for his own?
The silver-haired figure smirked to himself, shaking his head as he sighed, stretching and arching his back, before advancing. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, step by bloody step, frame set heavy with weaponry, various metallic objects and firearms clanking together at the man's back, and frame set heavy with a burden upon Ayden's shoulders. A burden of knowing that only one was the leave this battle-scorched plateau alive. They would fight through til the bitter end, as the world had done against a predator of its own creation: mankind.
In an instant, his pace stopped, barely five, ten metres from the Xingese-Drachman, and the would-be-slaughterer spun, barely covering a single revolution before allowing his overcoat and jacket to fly away with his momentum. A flash of a black curtain before Hei's eyes, and the figure had reinvented his very pose. Arms bare and pale, lined with scar upon scar upon scar, tiny, healed, faded, self-administered on skin younger than it should be. Even at the very core of his being, Ayden felt... surreality. He felt unnatural. He felt as if everything was; his presence, this world, the Xingese-Drachman's approach...
Delirium had taken hold long ago, but Ayden had embraced and welcomed it with open arms. Just as he did this man's call for battle. His throat was parched, dry, and Ayden wasn't even sure it functioned save for the odd laugh and shriek... did he even remember how to speak? It was how he'd survived. Let the madness come close, and as it tries to sneak up behind you, surprise it. Spin around and welcome it in, open the door to your mind and let it invade of your own free will. Don't let it enslave you; harness it, take its power for your own. Become one with true insanity.
He stood there now, with Astaroth in his right hand, pulled back, and Asmodeus in the left, faded red of the inlay's blood droplet glistening in a burning sun, the barrel extended forth so that it now was not a foot from the praying man's head. In any other life, he would've pulled the trigger straight away, taken advantage of that mercy. Hei had already let his guard down; Ayden smirked. But it was time perhaps to play with his food, experiment, no?
Both pistols were trained on the Xingese-Drachman's forehead exactly, those thin, slanted eyes, that light, gentle, recognisable tan that Ayden had experienced the closeness of more than this once... Astaroth was simply held back slightly further. The man's feet were a shoulder-width apart, and a truly unholy amount of weaponry swayed in the gentle, warm, dusty, gritty breeze of post-apocalyptia, clunking together as they were left with nothing but silence.
A croaking, parched voice, exercised for the first time in what had been undoubtedly years. However, despite that, the tone was stern, commanding; powerful. The ex-General's mouth opened wide to reveal a toothy grin of off-colour teeth, saliva dripping from them in strings across each other, Ayden never particularly having cared for dental hygiene in this new world where the fittest survived.
Hammers cocked.
Tensions high.
Pistols primed.
Rounds chambered.
Commands made.
"...get up."
Or perhaps the Xingese-Drachman reminded him of himself? Ayden cocked his head as he wondered if this was some self-perpetuating cycle. Was he an old model, the one survivalist to be finally outlived and replaced? Would this new, unusual, familiar yet foreign entity dethrone him and take immortality for his own?
The silver-haired figure smirked to himself, shaking his head as he sighed, stretching and arching his back, before advancing. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, step by bloody step, frame set heavy with weaponry, various metallic objects and firearms clanking together at the man's back, and frame set heavy with a burden upon Ayden's shoulders. A burden of knowing that only one was the leave this battle-scorched plateau alive. They would fight through til the bitter end, as the world had done against a predator of its own creation: mankind.
In an instant, his pace stopped, barely five, ten metres from the Xingese-Drachman, and the would-be-slaughterer spun, barely covering a single revolution before allowing his overcoat and jacket to fly away with his momentum. A flash of a black curtain before Hei's eyes, and the figure had reinvented his very pose. Arms bare and pale, lined with scar upon scar upon scar, tiny, healed, faded, self-administered on skin younger than it should be. Even at the very core of his being, Ayden felt... surreality. He felt unnatural. He felt as if everything was; his presence, this world, the Xingese-Drachman's approach...
Delirium had taken hold long ago, but Ayden had embraced and welcomed it with open arms. Just as he did this man's call for battle. His throat was parched, dry, and Ayden wasn't even sure it functioned save for the odd laugh and shriek... did he even remember how to speak? It was how he'd survived. Let the madness come close, and as it tries to sneak up behind you, surprise it. Spin around and welcome it in, open the door to your mind and let it invade of your own free will. Don't let it enslave you; harness it, take its power for your own. Become one with true insanity.
He stood there now, with Astaroth in his right hand, pulled back, and Asmodeus in the left, faded red of the inlay's blood droplet glistening in a burning sun, the barrel extended forth so that it now was not a foot from the praying man's head. In any other life, he would've pulled the trigger straight away, taken advantage of that mercy. Hei had already let his guard down; Ayden smirked. But it was time perhaps to play with his food, experiment, no?
Both pistols were trained on the Xingese-Drachman's forehead exactly, those thin, slanted eyes, that light, gentle, recognisable tan that Ayden had experienced the closeness of more than this once... Astaroth was simply held back slightly further. The man's feet were a shoulder-width apart, and a truly unholy amount of weaponry swayed in the gentle, warm, dusty, gritty breeze of post-apocalyptia, clunking together as they were left with nothing but silence.
A croaking, parched voice, exercised for the first time in what had been undoubtedly years. However, despite that, the tone was stern, commanding; powerful. The ex-General's mouth opened wide to reveal a toothy grin of off-colour teeth, saliva dripping from them in strings across each other, Ayden never particularly having cared for dental hygiene in this new world where the fittest survived.
Hammers cocked.
Tensions high.
Pistols primed.
Rounds chambered.
Commands made.
"...get up."
Guest- Guest
Re: Iliad
by Guest Mon Mar 12, 2012 12:02 am
OOC: Let's kick the madness up to overdrive, now.
IC:
"...get up."
The Xingman, whose head was covered in a large, obscuring black helmet, only lifted his gaze upward slightly. From the outside, all that could be seen was a single red band, as though it were an eerily glowing light emitting from the 'knightly' monster.
"I ... answer to ... no one. I ... will stand ... at my ... own ... leisure." was the immediate echo of a response. Subdued, quiet ... and mechanical in nature. True, it was his voice, but given that this helmet was more than it just seemed and the fact that these last few months had not been kind fo him, he needed artificial assistance in speaking. That is all.
At that point, his head dropped slightly. When speaking, his hands had come apart, slowly beginning to curl as though he were to clench them to become fists. And then they became straight and rigid once more, as he brought them together in force.
A single clap, hands brought together once more as a sign of prayer. Who did he pray for? What did he believe in? What was sacred to him? Holy to him? What on earth did he want?! Nothing. He desired nothing. Wanted nothing. So, to make that nothingness absolute was his purpose. This world was already a holy land to him, being barren, but it was not enough.
'It is never enough.'
Blades are swung overhead, the three blades and one more weapon that had fallen off his back and plunged into the ground. Emerging from his back are five coils, mechanical limbs, I suppose you could say. They are clearly integrated parts of his armor, which serve as a dead giveaway about the modernity of it all despite its appearance, and these five limbs have prehensile claws. Claws that held the Spatha, the Dadao, the Estoc, and centermost two clutching an oversized battle axe. These four were brought in a downward-angled swing, no precision involved, more an intimidation tactic, after all. What WOULD this one do, upon seeing various bladed weapons swung down at vicious speeds do? Hei did not need to dodge, flesh was enough against most weapons, his armor had been modified several times over to help him against modern firearms. That, and he still wanted to pray.
The Spatha and Estoc are swung diagonally, former coming to the victim's right shoulder, latter come to the left. The Dadao's arm has swept around Hei's neck and is aimed straight forward into the person's center. The axe is forcibly brought down overhead, and if it hits, it will hit with a force to cleave through stone. Either way, he had no fine control over the strength of these things, he could only will them to clutch and attack. Anything else beyond that was outside of his power. Though, admittedly it made things a lot easier to kill with, and really these were his disposable weapons, so if by chance they were broken (say, from impacting against each other), he would not care.
So long as he could pray.
IC:
"...get up."
The Xingman, whose head was covered in a large, obscuring black helmet, only lifted his gaze upward slightly. From the outside, all that could be seen was a single red band, as though it were an eerily glowing light emitting from the 'knightly' monster.
"I ... answer to ... no one. I ... will stand ... at my ... own ... leisure." was the immediate echo of a response. Subdued, quiet ... and mechanical in nature. True, it was his voice, but given that this helmet was more than it just seemed and the fact that these last few months had not been kind fo him, he needed artificial assistance in speaking. That is all.
At that point, his head dropped slightly. When speaking, his hands had come apart, slowly beginning to curl as though he were to clench them to become fists. And then they became straight and rigid once more, as he brought them together in force.
A single clap, hands brought together once more as a sign of prayer. Who did he pray for? What did he believe in? What was sacred to him? Holy to him? What on earth did he want?! Nothing. He desired nothing. Wanted nothing. So, to make that nothingness absolute was his purpose. This world was already a holy land to him, being barren, but it was not enough.
'It is never enough.'
Blades are swung overhead, the three blades and one more weapon that had fallen off his back and plunged into the ground. Emerging from his back are five coils, mechanical limbs, I suppose you could say. They are clearly integrated parts of his armor, which serve as a dead giveaway about the modernity of it all despite its appearance, and these five limbs have prehensile claws. Claws that held the Spatha, the Dadao, the Estoc, and centermost two clutching an oversized battle axe. These four were brought in a downward-angled swing, no precision involved, more an intimidation tactic, after all. What WOULD this one do, upon seeing various bladed weapons swung down at vicious speeds do? Hei did not need to dodge, flesh was enough against most weapons, his armor had been modified several times over to help him against modern firearms. That, and he still wanted to pray.
The Spatha and Estoc are swung diagonally, former coming to the victim's right shoulder, latter come to the left. The Dadao's arm has swept around Hei's neck and is aimed straight forward into the person's center. The axe is forcibly brought down overhead, and if it hits, it will hit with a force to cleave through stone. Either way, he had no fine control over the strength of these things, he could only will them to clutch and attack. Anything else beyond that was outside of his power. Though, admittedly it made things a lot easier to kill with, and really these were his disposable weapons, so if by chance they were broken (say, from impacting against each other), he would not care.
So long as he could pray.
Guest- Guest
Re: Iliad
by Guest Sat Mar 17, 2012 7:06 pm
The Spatha and Estoc came first; Ayden had primed his reflexes for this. He'd known the man was dangerous, volatile, and most definitely well-armed since his approaching the crouched Xingman. Now, however, his theory had been put to practice and subsequently become fact. This man was dangerous. And he was murderous.
Dodging from the x-shape of slash-patterns the first two blades made was a simple backwards jumping manouver. The thrust of the Xingese blade was a matter no different, but two dodges in such a short time was a challenging feat; the Dadao pricked the skin concealing Ayden's sternum, and a sharp intake of breath accompanied by a thin trickle of blood solicited from the man a growl, and a bloodlust he'd not felt in years.
Adrenaline and electricity now surged through his veins in place of blood or any other fluid. Emotions, human necessities and narcissisms... all were placed aside. This was the battlefield, no place for feeling, but for fighting. Another growl escaped the man's lips as he rolled to the side, the axe shearing past his head by but an inch, and taking a few locks of silver hair with it.
The Xingese-Drachman moved back into stance, and Ayden rose the hand grasping Astaroth, running it through a head of dancing, iridescent white-silver locks. Cerulean eyes locked upon the black knight, and that trademark smirk that had been with him for time immemorial stretched across his face. The smirk of the assassin.
Both pistols raised and cocked, nine rounds in each. Simultaneously, the man squeezed the triggers, inhaling and exhaling, his arms absorbing the shock and recoil he'd memorised so perfectly. They dampened it exquisitely; these tools were his and his alone, and he wasn't ever in prime condition without them.
He began to advance, walking, not running. No more simultaneous fire; just sharp breaths as one shot after the other exploded from the barrel of the two Colt pistols of ancient Cretan make. His advances were relentless, his fire accurate, and precise. "I guess no-one told you, friend!" A weary, aged, and yet oh-so-thrilled voice, sated and whetted now with bloodlust, taunted and insulted for the first time in decades underneath this bleeding sky, this crimson horizon.
The walk broke into a jog, and the jog into a run. Four rounds in each pistol, three rounds in each pistol, two rounds in each pistol, one round in each pistol... the chambers clicked empty, despite Ayden knowing the ammunition count in each all along. Effect; that was all it was. Cartridge casings danced through the blood-soaked sand and grit aside him, a trail of them jumping through the smoke he'd released into the atmosphere like a driver from the starting gate.
They were but a few feet away from each other; in a single, fluid movement, Ayden crouched, and sheathed the empty pistols, before raising up and unsheathing the Twins from their dangling shoulder holsters, pulling back the triggers and laying his fingers over the triggers, cocking them out. One hundred percent ready, vacant, empty barrels staring, boring ominously with that metallic glare of theirs into the black knight's beaten and battered armour chest.
"Never bring a knife to a gunfight."
The scene exploded with automatic gunfire. As the Xingman had tried to carve an x-shape in his chest, he now reflected the manouver in an upwards-crossing spray of nine-millimetre rounds, copper and cordite joined in a beautiful explosion of propellant, metal, and gunpowder. Smaller shell casings joined those already spilt onto the floor.
Around half of each magazine was extinguished on the initial assault, and Ayden leapt back, tilting each machine pistol until it was aimed horizontally. Arms crossed, each weapon aiming off to the side, Ayden held the triggers and brought them forwards in an arc, a swinging pendulum barrage of lead and smoke. A one-hundred-and-eighty degree field that naught but the hardiest could stand through, or so experience told him.
The MP9 machine pistols fell to the floor, their use now exhausted. They too were battered, as were the Children, but this was just a simple taste of what was to come. Now seemingly unarmed, despite the arsenal further concealed beneath the abyss of the man's inner jacket, he cocked his head, giggled, and spoke once more with a tone so familiar, so sickeningly pleasant, with a meaning pertaining only to the grotesque and ugly art that he so specialised in: death.
"You'll never catch me with little toothpicks like those, you fool..."
And that... was that.
Dodging from the x-shape of slash-patterns the first two blades made was a simple backwards jumping manouver. The thrust of the Xingese blade was a matter no different, but two dodges in such a short time was a challenging feat; the Dadao pricked the skin concealing Ayden's sternum, and a sharp intake of breath accompanied by a thin trickle of blood solicited from the man a growl, and a bloodlust he'd not felt in years.
Adrenaline and electricity now surged through his veins in place of blood or any other fluid. Emotions, human necessities and narcissisms... all were placed aside. This was the battlefield, no place for feeling, but for fighting. Another growl escaped the man's lips as he rolled to the side, the axe shearing past his head by but an inch, and taking a few locks of silver hair with it.
The Xingese-Drachman moved back into stance, and Ayden rose the hand grasping Astaroth, running it through a head of dancing, iridescent white-silver locks. Cerulean eyes locked upon the black knight, and that trademark smirk that had been with him for time immemorial stretched across his face. The smirk of the assassin.
Both pistols raised and cocked, nine rounds in each. Simultaneously, the man squeezed the triggers, inhaling and exhaling, his arms absorbing the shock and recoil he'd memorised so perfectly. They dampened it exquisitely; these tools were his and his alone, and he wasn't ever in prime condition without them.
He began to advance, walking, not running. No more simultaneous fire; just sharp breaths as one shot after the other exploded from the barrel of the two Colt pistols of ancient Cretan make. His advances were relentless, his fire accurate, and precise. "I guess no-one told you, friend!" A weary, aged, and yet oh-so-thrilled voice, sated and whetted now with bloodlust, taunted and insulted for the first time in decades underneath this bleeding sky, this crimson horizon.
The walk broke into a jog, and the jog into a run. Four rounds in each pistol, three rounds in each pistol, two rounds in each pistol, one round in each pistol... the chambers clicked empty, despite Ayden knowing the ammunition count in each all along. Effect; that was all it was. Cartridge casings danced through the blood-soaked sand and grit aside him, a trail of them jumping through the smoke he'd released into the atmosphere like a driver from the starting gate.
They were but a few feet away from each other; in a single, fluid movement, Ayden crouched, and sheathed the empty pistols, before raising up and unsheathing the Twins from their dangling shoulder holsters, pulling back the triggers and laying his fingers over the triggers, cocking them out. One hundred percent ready, vacant, empty barrels staring, boring ominously with that metallic glare of theirs into the black knight's beaten and battered armour chest.
"Never bring a knife to a gunfight."
The scene exploded with automatic gunfire. As the Xingman had tried to carve an x-shape in his chest, he now reflected the manouver in an upwards-crossing spray of nine-millimetre rounds, copper and cordite joined in a beautiful explosion of propellant, metal, and gunpowder. Smaller shell casings joined those already spilt onto the floor.
Around half of each magazine was extinguished on the initial assault, and Ayden leapt back, tilting each machine pistol until it was aimed horizontally. Arms crossed, each weapon aiming off to the side, Ayden held the triggers and brought them forwards in an arc, a swinging pendulum barrage of lead and smoke. A one-hundred-and-eighty degree field that naught but the hardiest could stand through, or so experience told him.
The MP9 machine pistols fell to the floor, their use now exhausted. They too were battered, as were the Children, but this was just a simple taste of what was to come. Now seemingly unarmed, despite the arsenal further concealed beneath the abyss of the man's inner jacket, he cocked his head, giggled, and spoke once more with a tone so familiar, so sickeningly pleasant, with a meaning pertaining only to the grotesque and ugly art that he so specialised in: death.
"You'll never catch me with little toothpicks like those, you fool..."
And that... was that.
Guest- Guest
Csilla Angelis- LITE BRITE
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Writer: Csi
Re: Iliad
by Guest Mon Apr 16, 2012 4:26 pm
His swords missed. How did he know? Simple, if they had hit their mark, he wouldn't have gotten shot. But, then again, if they HAD hit their mark, that didn't meant that getting shot was an impossible event ... is just decreased the likelihood drammatically. Wait, no. This doesn't make sense.
He just go shot, why was he talking about his swords missing and being part of a set of conditional statements about him getting shot?
Ah well.
For now, his primary concern was to deal with the fact he got shot. How was he going to deal with this, you ask? WHY! NANOMACHINES, OF COURSE!!!!!!! As he screams this mentally and strikes a Super Pose, his armor begins to meld the damages. HOW? THE NANOMACHINES, OF COURSE!!!! Within moments, the bullets are rejected from the body of armor and the holes are patched up into prime condition! SUCH IS THE POWER OF NANOMACHINES!!!!!!!
"WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHA!!!
His triumphant laughter echoes in this battlefield, while he then proceeds to procure one of the large heavy weapons he had dropped. The Halberd. Now with Halberd in hand, he would rush his newest prey, for he was the INVINCIBLE SUPERMAN WHO HAD NO ENEMIES. WAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! The first course of action was to close the distance between himself and the gunmen, but before he got within striking distance, the Xingman pointed the halberd and some odd attachment at Ayden Derocha ... and fired a small missile out of some compartment that had been attached to the underside of the oversized halberd, while giving out his trademark laugh of WAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
OOC: I don't know ...
He just go shot, why was he talking about his swords missing and being part of a set of conditional statements about him getting shot?
Ah well.
For now, his primary concern was to deal with the fact he got shot. How was he going to deal with this, you ask? WHY! NANOMACHINES, OF COURSE!!!!!!! As he screams this mentally and strikes a Super Pose, his armor begins to meld the damages. HOW? THE NANOMACHINES, OF COURSE!!!! Within moments, the bullets are rejected from the body of armor and the holes are patched up into prime condition! SUCH IS THE POWER OF NANOMACHINES!!!!!!!
"WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHA!!!
His triumphant laughter echoes in this battlefield, while he then proceeds to procure one of the large heavy weapons he had dropped. The Halberd. Now with Halberd in hand, he would rush his newest prey, for he was the INVINCIBLE SUPERMAN WHO HAD NO ENEMIES. WAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! The first course of action was to close the distance between himself and the gunmen, but before he got within striking distance, the Xingman pointed the halberd and some odd attachment at Ayden Derocha ... and fired a small missile out of some compartment that had been attached to the underside of the oversized halberd, while giving out his trademark laugh of WAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
OOC: I don't know ...
Guest- Guest
Re: Iliad
by Guest Mon Apr 16, 2012 5:06 pm
((OOC: Well it was about time this shit got a little more crazy.))
The bulletholes... they'd healed. How was that possible? The armour had knitted back over, regurgitated the lead projectiles as if it was child's play. This man... no, this... this berserker, he had... living armour? The assassin, taken aback, leapt backwards in preparation, before a wide grin slapped away the surprise from his pallor. It had been... too long. Too long since he'd had a real challenge.
Brandishing twin tanto from the back of his waist, allowing his coat to billow in the sun-scorched brick-red dust of civilisations past beneath his feet, clouds of grit and soot puffed up from beneath them. As well as a smoke grenade, momentarily, Ayden allowed the dust to obscure the Xingese-Drachman's view of him, smirking as both parties readied themselves.
And from beyond the grime-laden haze came... laughter? Laughter. Ayden smirked once more, chuckling in time to his opponent's mad cackles. It had been a long time since his insanity had scraped at the bars of its prison, rattled the cages with chain, wrought iron bars, and all, but now, with this man's resurgence, the silver-haired assassin felt himself losing control. Between those pale azure eyes of his, something rippled. Something snarled. A beast and a demon within. Composure would only last him so much longer. "WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
In turn, Ayden matched his laughter, raising the stakes. "GYAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" It was a constant clashing of everything between the pair; not just of shot and shell, of stabbing and slashing, but even a battle of the pair's insanities. The assassin had long since tied down the waiting instability that his mind had once possessed, but... now? He felt his body quaking beneath the will of his mind, his fingers trembling if they weren't holding a gun or sword. He knew just as well as his foe: the pair of them were both weapons forged for battle.
They had never been anything else.
With another laugh, the sound of jet propulsion pierced the dust-smoke, clearing it as it whizzed through the haze. Just in time, Ayden curved to the right of the missile, letting the heated air scorch his face with the jets of the projectile; it curved off, disappearing into the treeline for a moment, before rising again in a magnificent eruption of vermilion flames. FOOOOOM.
"Not this time, friend," Ayden dove at the man, a whir of faded, nicked, and battered steel, a tornado bearing only deadly-sharp edges to long-acquired tanto. A scything action carved the smoke through as Ayden leapt back through what remained of it, landing from a mid-air jump and aiming straight at Hei's chest. Not even waiting to see if he'd glanced the man's armour or not, he rose up once more, spinning the blades around him as he did so, taking a brief intermission and letting them hang at his sides as he panted, the very tips of the shortswords brushing the musty maroon grit beneath their heels.
"Hrgh..." A long, drawn sniff. And... then, the silver-haired, cerulean-eyed assassin raised the blades once more, twirling each in total synchronicity, in ease, with a simple flick of the wrist. They were extensions to his hands, weapons he'd borne so many times before. And with that, he rose them once more - he wasn't going to let his enemy pull another stunt like that. That was just... cowardly of him.
Unintelligible. Just noise, release. A channeling of energy through the vocal chords. A warning, a warcry. An emptying of the larynx - relief. The sound of impending doom coming on towards you, a train on the tracks that you can't derail. So much, epitomised in just one simple noise.
With that, Ayden charged, a blur of steel once more, twirling and twisting as he unleashed his adrenaline, the blades as a conduit. He scraped and slashed, hacking and shearing through air and hopefully the Xingman's armour, moving until he panted, exhausting every last bit of energy he had left in becoming a whirling dervish of metal and sweat.
The bulletholes... they'd healed. How was that possible? The armour had knitted back over, regurgitated the lead projectiles as if it was child's play. This man... no, this... this berserker, he had... living armour? The assassin, taken aback, leapt backwards in preparation, before a wide grin slapped away the surprise from his pallor. It had been... too long. Too long since he'd had a real challenge.
Brandishing twin tanto from the back of his waist, allowing his coat to billow in the sun-scorched brick-red dust of civilisations past beneath his feet, clouds of grit and soot puffed up from beneath them. As well as a smoke grenade, momentarily, Ayden allowed the dust to obscure the Xingese-Drachman's view of him, smirking as both parties readied themselves.
And from beyond the grime-laden haze came... laughter? Laughter. Ayden smirked once more, chuckling in time to his opponent's mad cackles. It had been a long time since his insanity had scraped at the bars of its prison, rattled the cages with chain, wrought iron bars, and all, but now, with this man's resurgence, the silver-haired assassin felt himself losing control. Between those pale azure eyes of his, something rippled. Something snarled. A beast and a demon within. Composure would only last him so much longer. "WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
In turn, Ayden matched his laughter, raising the stakes. "GYAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" It was a constant clashing of everything between the pair; not just of shot and shell, of stabbing and slashing, but even a battle of the pair's insanities. The assassin had long since tied down the waiting instability that his mind had once possessed, but... now? He felt his body quaking beneath the will of his mind, his fingers trembling if they weren't holding a gun or sword. He knew just as well as his foe: the pair of them were both weapons forged for battle.
They had never been anything else.
With another laugh, the sound of jet propulsion pierced the dust-smoke, clearing it as it whizzed through the haze. Just in time, Ayden curved to the right of the missile, letting the heated air scorch his face with the jets of the projectile; it curved off, disappearing into the treeline for a moment, before rising again in a magnificent eruption of vermilion flames. FOOOOOM.
"Not this time, friend," Ayden dove at the man, a whir of faded, nicked, and battered steel, a tornado bearing only deadly-sharp edges to long-acquired tanto. A scything action carved the smoke through as Ayden leapt back through what remained of it, landing from a mid-air jump and aiming straight at Hei's chest. Not even waiting to see if he'd glanced the man's armour or not, he rose up once more, spinning the blades around him as he did so, taking a brief intermission and letting them hang at his sides as he panted, the very tips of the shortswords brushing the musty maroon grit beneath their heels.
"Hrgh..." A long, drawn sniff. And... then, the silver-haired, cerulean-eyed assassin raised the blades once more, twirling each in total synchronicity, in ease, with a simple flick of the wrist. They were extensions to his hands, weapons he'd borne so many times before. And with that, he rose them once more - he wasn't going to let his enemy pull another stunt like that. That was just... cowardly of him.
"HYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"
Unintelligible. Just noise, release. A channeling of energy through the vocal chords. A warning, a warcry. An emptying of the larynx - relief. The sound of impending doom coming on towards you, a train on the tracks that you can't derail. So much, epitomised in just one simple noise.
With that, Ayden charged, a blur of steel once more, twirling and twisting as he unleashed his adrenaline, the blades as a conduit. He scraped and slashed, hacking and shearing through air and hopefully the Xingman's armour, moving until he panted, exhausting every last bit of energy he had left in becoming a whirling dervish of metal and sweat.
Guest- Guest
Re: Iliad
by Guest Sun Apr 22, 2012 4:49 am
OOC: Let's pick up speed, sorry for all the delays.
'Twas a simple matter, really. Although he relished madness and combat, his mercurial state of being was quite an annoyance. One moment he would place his heart and soul into the fantastic arts, but the next he would become depressed and miserable, wanting nothing to do with this savage display. Or something like that.
Well, right now, he was utterly confused as to why he was shooting a missile at his armed opponent despite having a whole cache of melee weapons! Oh, that's right ... because he seemed to be using ballistic weaponry! So, as to continue the assault of countering with somewhat ballistic weaponry against his barrage of ballistic things, he unleashed ANOTHER mechanism that fired off the spearhead as though it were a projectile! And it flew with the force of a hundred thousand stampeding llamas.
Except it missed! Except it didn't and slammed into one of those silly little knives he had drawn out in an attempt to cut him, and he had two of them! Well, one was broken now, since the point clearly missed him but went a-careening through the toothpick, so here he was charging with his battle power halved! AND HEI HAD HIS DRAWN AND QUARTERED.
So, tanto and a half versus newly-converted Bo staff. Who wins? Why, no one does, because the Xingman was too busy distracted by a shiny object on the floor! Was it a coin! HE LOVED COINS! Ever since the world went to hell, he had been searching far and wide for these metallic little relics, as part of a personal collectio-No. This was one of those bullets, of which there were many scattered on the ground after his armor regurgitated them earlier.
At which point he suddenly became aware he was being attacked! And well, it was quite a sight. These man was clearly an agile and deft fellow, scraping away like a madman with these twin blades ... well one point five blades. It eventually got to a point that the Xingman was a little worried about his armor's NANOMACHINES being able to repair the damage soon enough, so rather than just try to avoid, he took to offensive-defensive measures! Such as parrying the remaining blade's attacks with his arm! Layered in regenerative nano-steel components! And thus, the blade found itself broken by swift jabs of his right arm, occasionally reaching out to grab the tanto's length as well ... and success was achieved at the end!
Now his armor had gashes in it, with streaks of crimson where the ferocious assaults, but gun and sword, had managed to make it through and make him bleed. But, in his right hand was the ground silver of the metal he had collected from striking out against the tanto ... which were now broken beyond repair, really.
"What was that ... all about?"
His suit inquires for him. Alright, never mind. THUS HE INQUIRED, while his suit projected it out like a robotic monotone, which he hated, but did not figure out how to disable. Meanwhile, whilst the question was posed, his left hand released it's hold upon the useless useful staff and instead began to ... break apart at strategic locations and peel back to reveal deeper internal mechanisms as it swiftly morphed itself into what appeared to be a wrist-mounted energy-based projectile launcher ... thing ... stuff ... Alright, so maybe he DID need to find a damn instruction manual to this, since he had no idea what the hell this component of his suit was supposed to be, but back to what was going on here! Now the tendrils of almighty doom that had wielded his weapons before were grasping them again, lifting up the pieces of them or intact weapons that still existed and braced ...
And flung them with force from various angles, at other timings, with irregular patterns of nonsense pretty flashes of reflective light bouncing off their polished surfaces to show the barren lands in which he and this man were desperately trying to end each other's life in! Yes, it was interesting, now that lots of large pieces of something were being flung about with lethal force with calculated (read: bullshitted) throws in his general direction, expect something to graze him as opposed to kill him ... while he figured out what the hell happened to his left hand.
'Twas a simple matter, really. Although he relished madness and combat, his mercurial state of being was quite an annoyance. One moment he would place his heart and soul into the fantastic arts, but the next he would become depressed and miserable, wanting nothing to do with this savage display. Or something like that.
Well, right now, he was utterly confused as to why he was shooting a missile at his armed opponent despite having a whole cache of melee weapons! Oh, that's right ... because he seemed to be using ballistic weaponry! So, as to continue the assault of countering with somewhat ballistic weaponry against his barrage of ballistic things, he unleashed ANOTHER mechanism that fired off the spearhead as though it were a projectile! And it flew with the force of a hundred thousand stampeding llamas.
Except it missed! Except it didn't and slammed into one of those silly little knives he had drawn out in an attempt to cut him, and he had two of them! Well, one was broken now, since the point clearly missed him but went a-careening through the toothpick, so here he was charging with his battle power halved! AND HEI HAD HIS DRAWN AND QUARTERED.
So, tanto and a half versus newly-converted Bo staff. Who wins? Why, no one does, because the Xingman was too busy distracted by a shiny object on the floor! Was it a coin! HE LOVED COINS! Ever since the world went to hell, he had been searching far and wide for these metallic little relics, as part of a personal collectio-No. This was one of those bullets, of which there were many scattered on the ground after his armor regurgitated them earlier.
At which point he suddenly became aware he was being attacked! And well, it was quite a sight. These man was clearly an agile and deft fellow, scraping away like a madman with these twin blades ... well one point five blades. It eventually got to a point that the Xingman was a little worried about his armor's NANOMACHINES being able to repair the damage soon enough, so rather than just try to avoid, he took to offensive-defensive measures! Such as parrying the remaining blade's attacks with his arm! Layered in regenerative nano-steel components! And thus, the blade found itself broken by swift jabs of his right arm, occasionally reaching out to grab the tanto's length as well ... and success was achieved at the end!
Now his armor had gashes in it, with streaks of crimson where the ferocious assaults, but gun and sword, had managed to make it through and make him bleed. But, in his right hand was the ground silver of the metal he had collected from striking out against the tanto ... which were now broken beyond repair, really.
"What was that ... all about?"
His suit inquires for him. Alright, never mind. THUS HE INQUIRED, while his suit projected it out like a robotic monotone, which he hated, but did not figure out how to disable. Meanwhile, whilst the question was posed, his left hand released it's hold upon the useless useful staff and instead began to ... break apart at strategic locations and peel back to reveal deeper internal mechanisms as it swiftly morphed itself into what appeared to be a wrist-mounted energy-based projectile launcher ... thing ... stuff ... Alright, so maybe he DID need to find a damn instruction manual to this, since he had no idea what the hell this component of his suit was supposed to be, but back to what was going on here! Now the tendrils of almighty doom that had wielded his weapons before were grasping them again, lifting up the pieces of them or intact weapons that still existed and braced ...
And flung them with force from various angles, at other timings, with irregular patterns of nonsense pretty flashes of reflective light bouncing off their polished surfaces to show the barren lands in which he and this man were desperately trying to end each other's life in! Yes, it was interesting, now that lots of large pieces of something were being flung about with lethal force with calculated (read: bullshitted) throws in his general direction, expect something to graze him as opposed to kill him ... while he figured out what the hell happened to his left hand.
Guest- Guest
Re: Iliad
by Guest Sun Apr 22, 2012 5:22 pm
Crack.
Oh, no. That was never a good sound. The man in the armour had all-too-quickly begun to realise that his regenerating armour fared just as well as a shield against Ayden's whirlwind of slashes and thrusts; and now, it seemed, that the silver-haired assassin's momentum had been its own downfall, in all the blissful irony of it. "Well, that's not good," He muttered, watching as he withdrew the blade as a scorpion would a wounded stinger, watching as it fell into but shards of metal before his eyes.
Dropping the remains of the first tanto, blinking as he remembered the Aerugese man who'd sold them to him giving him a reassurance that 'they would never break under any mortal power', Ayden came to a realisation. Either, the man was lying through his teeth, or he wasn't exactly fighting someone with mortal strength, here. Well... either way, metal versus metal wasn't bound to last long. "C'est la vie," The man muttered, shrugging and leaping backwards.
The second was just as battered, shattered, and ruined, but an extent of metal still protruded from it. As the Xingman, with a synthesises hiss, inquired into some matter that confused him, of their doing battle, or, perhaps, of a far more philosophical nature, Ayden twirled the remains of the broken blade about his wrist, hissing like a magnificent black-clad, silver-bellied cobra ready to strike.
With a hiss and a thrumming of energy, the armoured Xingman's left hand morphed into what seemed to be a glowing cannon of some sort. Oh, dear. That didn't look friendly. His suit seemed to be morphing before Ayden's eyes; intelligent armour. Maybe he'd pry it off the moron's cold, dead corpse after he finished with him. Another snarl resounded through the scorched battlefield and lowered once more into but a hiss, as the cerulean-eyed murderer twirled the blade's remnant about his wrist, before flinging it towards his enemy.
Now unarmed, Ayden simply leapt backwards from the majority of the hits, aside from one low blow that carved at his leg. It sliced the upper leather, and drew a small rivulet of crimson from him, but the assassin only growled in response. The Xingman dared to make him spill his own blood?! A general whose name the assassin couldn't quite remember popped into his mind; along with all the other mortals, it appeared he'd been vanquished long ago, but he seemed to bear a particular hatred for the Xingese that... really, Ayden currently seemed to agree with, momentarily... at least, for some inexplicable reason.
Bright red lifeblood trickled over black leather, the two colours intermingling as crimson flowed forth from pale, torn skin. Ayden's flesh, his bones, his mind, his sinews, the very fibres of his being ached for murder like they hadn't ever before. Another indistinguishable animalistic hiss, and it was determined; they were back to basics, back to primal savagery in their fight. It was just the two men and their arsenals pitted against each other, circling as two warring tigers would in the jungle, should they ever have to meet.
Pulling those gloves from his hands, Ayden tossed them aside; no longer necessary, even beneath the despicable heat of a long-scorched sun in a blackened sky. Inked tendrils crawled up and around his hands, his body 'defiled', as some would say, by his art, his masterpieces, strewn across pale skin and sore flesh. It was time for a continuation, but down a different route.
Ripping two phials, of long-aged crimson he'd extracted from a few stray felines in the wilderness, from the atrium of the heart itself, from a bandolier upon the madman's chest, Ayden charged each with alchemy, his hands crackling blue with electric discharge as he slid the capsules up into thumb and forefinger, grinning like a jester before finally tossing them at his enemy. "GYAHAHAHAH!" Customary, really, for the pair now.
The phials slammed into the armour and shattered, but the damage had already been done. Hissing and bubbling in mid-air, particles of that delectable crimson H2O fizzed and crackled as the hydrogen broke its covalent bondings to the oxygen, and slammed together, creating-
Chemistry at its absolute pinnacle, brilliance in its purest. The crimson-tinted flames had exploded straight into the air, catalysing with the oxygen atoms inside the specks of blood themselves. The explosion had been comparable to a miniature hand grenade, glancing straight from the Xingman's armour, unless he'd moved. With crimson-tinted flames giving off crimson-tinted smoke, either he'd die, emerge, or appear elsewhere on the battlefield, charging that thrumming hand-cannon of his.
A warm breeze caught Ayden's face, causing silvery tendrils of hair to almost glow in the reddened sunlight as they blew across his face, obscuring one eye as the dim, grim sunlight danced across the cerulean iris of the other. In his hands, now, he clutched now a harpoon-laden pistol in one, and an adorned, engraved, Heckler and Koch MP5K sub-machine gun in the other. Now that Ayden had unsheathed his true ordnance...
Oh, no. That was never a good sound. The man in the armour had all-too-quickly begun to realise that his regenerating armour fared just as well as a shield against Ayden's whirlwind of slashes and thrusts; and now, it seemed, that the silver-haired assassin's momentum had been its own downfall, in all the blissful irony of it. "Well, that's not good," He muttered, watching as he withdrew the blade as a scorpion would a wounded stinger, watching as it fell into but shards of metal before his eyes.
Dropping the remains of the first tanto, blinking as he remembered the Aerugese man who'd sold them to him giving him a reassurance that 'they would never break under any mortal power', Ayden came to a realisation. Either, the man was lying through his teeth, or he wasn't exactly fighting someone with mortal strength, here. Well... either way, metal versus metal wasn't bound to last long. "C'est la vie," The man muttered, shrugging and leaping backwards.
The second was just as battered, shattered, and ruined, but an extent of metal still protruded from it. As the Xingman, with a synthesises hiss, inquired into some matter that confused him, of their doing battle, or, perhaps, of a far more philosophical nature, Ayden twirled the remains of the broken blade about his wrist, hissing like a magnificent black-clad, silver-bellied cobra ready to strike.
With a hiss and a thrumming of energy, the armoured Xingman's left hand morphed into what seemed to be a glowing cannon of some sort. Oh, dear. That didn't look friendly. His suit seemed to be morphing before Ayden's eyes; intelligent armour. Maybe he'd pry it off the moron's cold, dead corpse after he finished with him. Another snarl resounded through the scorched battlefield and lowered once more into but a hiss, as the cerulean-eyed murderer twirled the blade's remnant about his wrist, before flinging it towards his enemy.
Now unarmed, Ayden simply leapt backwards from the majority of the hits, aside from one low blow that carved at his leg. It sliced the upper leather, and drew a small rivulet of crimson from him, but the assassin only growled in response. The Xingman dared to make him spill his own blood?! A general whose name the assassin couldn't quite remember popped into his mind; along with all the other mortals, it appeared he'd been vanquished long ago, but he seemed to bear a particular hatred for the Xingese that... really, Ayden currently seemed to agree with, momentarily... at least, for some inexplicable reason.
Bright red lifeblood trickled over black leather, the two colours intermingling as crimson flowed forth from pale, torn skin. Ayden's flesh, his bones, his mind, his sinews, the very fibres of his being ached for murder like they hadn't ever before. Another indistinguishable animalistic hiss, and it was determined; they were back to basics, back to primal savagery in their fight. It was just the two men and their arsenals pitted against each other, circling as two warring tigers would in the jungle, should they ever have to meet.
Pulling those gloves from his hands, Ayden tossed them aside; no longer necessary, even beneath the despicable heat of a long-scorched sun in a blackened sky. Inked tendrils crawled up and around his hands, his body 'defiled', as some would say, by his art, his masterpieces, strewn across pale skin and sore flesh. It was time for a continuation, but down a different route.
Ripping two phials, of long-aged crimson he'd extracted from a few stray felines in the wilderness, from the atrium of the heart itself, from a bandolier upon the madman's chest, Ayden charged each with alchemy, his hands crackling blue with electric discharge as he slid the capsules up into thumb and forefinger, grinning like a jester before finally tossing them at his enemy. "GYAHAHAHAH!" Customary, really, for the pair now.
The phials slammed into the armour and shattered, but the damage had already been done. Hissing and bubbling in mid-air, particles of that delectable crimson H2O fizzed and crackled as the hydrogen broke its covalent bondings to the oxygen, and slammed together, creating-
BOOM.
Chemistry at its absolute pinnacle, brilliance in its purest. The crimson-tinted flames had exploded straight into the air, catalysing with the oxygen atoms inside the specks of blood themselves. The explosion had been comparable to a miniature hand grenade, glancing straight from the Xingman's armour, unless he'd moved. With crimson-tinted flames giving off crimson-tinted smoke, either he'd die, emerge, or appear elsewhere on the battlefield, charging that thrumming hand-cannon of his.
A warm breeze caught Ayden's face, causing silvery tendrils of hair to almost glow in the reddened sunlight as they blew across his face, obscuring one eye as the dim, grim sunlight danced across the cerulean iris of the other. In his hands, now, he clutched now a harpoon-laden pistol in one, and an adorned, engraved, Heckler and Koch MP5K sub-machine gun in the other. Now that Ayden had unsheathed his true ordnance...
...the real festivities could begin.
Guest- Guest
Re: Iliad
by Guest Thu Apr 26, 2012 3:12 pm
Or did they? He was not foolish enough to stay put and let something strike him. So rather, he placed an item in front of him, or really a tendril of his did that. The chainsword that he so often used, sometimes with glee and other times with a dull sigh.
The impact of the Alchemy certain did a number on the poor weapon. If anything, at least now it was essentially unusable! But, at least it saved him from taking the explosion head on ... still, though, that didn't mean his armor had gone unscathed. Bits of it had come apart, shredded a bit by the crumbling blade in front of him. But those bits were already recovering, and in swift moments he was back to a fully operational state again.
And so he emerged, from the smoke about him as the brilliant crimson flames burnt, he would appear a silhouette ... illuminated by flame, but shrouded by obscuring darkness. Until, at last! He broke through the layer of smoke, and allowing it to stream behind him as he continued a brisk march forward ... altogether unharmed.
"Nice trick. What do you call it?
A pause, before a response could be heard.
"Don't answer that.
Voice Command: Destroy.
And, as though something were happening, one could see that his black armor was starting to glow ... red. Yes ... glowing red. One could see that he was, clearly relaxing for some reason. Oh wait, no ... his body was trembling! Twitching, even, despite standing upright! A delicate clinking noise could be heard, followed immediately by what could be called a loud 'POP' as a glass vial is ejected out of his back. And promptly smashes into the ground.
And then he took his turn, starting with using whatever it was on his left arm. For starter's he had no idea that this thing was not meant to be used against an organic opponent, so he stood there dumbly while pointing an arm out at the enemy for a bit ... about a second. And then promptly knelt down and slammed his right fist into the useless contraption while letting out an ear-splitting combination of what seemed to be a yell, scream and screech simultaneously, amplified by the fact he had unknowingly activated a speaker system for his own voice as opposed to speaking out of the damn equipment.
Really, it's not his fault, as he begins tearing away at the flesh of his arm and the machinery, smearing bits of metal and silicon and carbon and blood all about even once gripping and slightly crushing his face ... visor ... helmet thing. It's the fault of his choice, and he was paying dearly for it until he just ... froze.
Completely still, while the armor was repairing itself, slowly melding together broken pieces, even spontaneously generating new metal (although the exact method is unknown) to merge the broken components back into one unit. This process was quick, as opposed to his lengthy ... silence. He was down on all fours, staring at the man in front of him. Yep, the man who he had been fighting not too long ago, and he had temporarily forgotten all about him. Now he was back at staring at him while his armor fixed himself, his mind a giant primordial stew of what could hardly be recognizable thoughts, save the impulsive desire to rend his flesh.
And so he sits there, a bit of a growl coming out, while all tense and ready to move.
The impact of the Alchemy certain did a number on the poor weapon. If anything, at least now it was essentially unusable! But, at least it saved him from taking the explosion head on ... still, though, that didn't mean his armor had gone unscathed. Bits of it had come apart, shredded a bit by the crumbling blade in front of him. But those bits were already recovering, and in swift moments he was back to a fully operational state again.
And so he emerged, from the smoke about him as the brilliant crimson flames burnt, he would appear a silhouette ... illuminated by flame, but shrouded by obscuring darkness. Until, at last! He broke through the layer of smoke, and allowing it to stream behind him as he continued a brisk march forward ... altogether unharmed.
"Nice trick. What do you call it?
A pause, before a response could be heard.
"Don't answer that.
Voice Command: Destroy.
And, as though something were happening, one could see that his black armor was starting to glow ... red. Yes ... glowing red. One could see that he was, clearly relaxing for some reason. Oh wait, no ... his body was trembling! Twitching, even, despite standing upright! A delicate clinking noise could be heard, followed immediately by what could be called a loud 'POP' as a glass vial is ejected out of his back. And promptly smashes into the ground.
And then he took his turn, starting with using whatever it was on his left arm. For starter's he had no idea that this thing was not meant to be used against an organic opponent, so he stood there dumbly while pointing an arm out at the enemy for a bit ... about a second. And then promptly knelt down and slammed his right fist into the useless contraption while letting out an ear-splitting combination of what seemed to be a yell, scream and screech simultaneously, amplified by the fact he had unknowingly activated a speaker system for his own voice as opposed to speaking out of the damn equipment.
Really, it's not his fault, as he begins tearing away at the flesh of his arm and the machinery, smearing bits of metal and silicon and carbon and blood all about even once gripping and slightly crushing his face ... visor ... helmet thing. It's the fault of his choice, and he was paying dearly for it until he just ... froze.
Completely still, while the armor was repairing itself, slowly melding together broken pieces, even spontaneously generating new metal (although the exact method is unknown) to merge the broken components back into one unit. This process was quick, as opposed to his lengthy ... silence. He was down on all fours, staring at the man in front of him. Yep, the man who he had been fighting not too long ago, and he had temporarily forgotten all about him. Now he was back at staring at him while his armor fixed himself, his mind a giant primordial stew of what could hardly be recognizable thoughts, save the impulsive desire to rend his flesh.
And so he sits there, a bit of a growl coming out, while all tense and ready to move.
Guest- Guest
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