Quote:
Bravely bold Sir Robin, rode forth from Camelot,
He was not afraid to die, Oh Brave Sir Robin,
He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways
Brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Robin.
He was not in the least bit scared to be mashed into a pulp
Or to have his eyes gouged out and his elbows broken;
To have his kneecaps split and his body burned away
And his limbs all hacked and mangled, brave Sir Robin.
His head smashed in, and his heart cut out,
And his liver removed, and his bowels unplugged,
And his nostrils raped, and his bottom burned off,
And his p***s split ... and his ...
He was not afraid to die, Oh Brave Sir Robin,
He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways
Brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Robin.
He was not in the least bit scared to be mashed into a pulp
Or to have his eyes gouged out and his elbows broken;
To have his kneecaps split and his body burned away
And his limbs all hacked and mangled, brave Sir Robin.
His head smashed in, and his heart cut out,
And his liver removed, and his bowels unplugged,
And his nostrils raped, and his bottom burned off,
And his p***s split ... and his ...
And thus the tune did play, blowing in the winds across a wide open field stretching for miles with mild rolling hills. Off to the east a great empty expanse seems to hang with death, while the west seems lush with life. The west seems to be constituted of one thing, a forest, a jungle, a huge foresty jungle. The northern area seems to open out into a beach of sorts while the south seems to be a huge mountain tipped with flame. Mind you none of this is close or anything, but everything is spread out far and wide, spanning miles and miles.
The immediate area is full of low rolling hills with a tall grass that seems sharper than a blade forged to cut materials with the strength of adamantium. These are the Razor Fields, and here is where blood shall be shed.
A large open area of approximately three hundred feet in diameter has been cleared away with much pain taken to clear the grasses, prepped and readied for some future building.
Within the tall grasses a single man seemed to walk forward, the grasses bending away from him by some projected force about his body and a control of the plane itself. Ashen grey locks cascade down to obscure his violet eyes, doing little to hide the two pristine balls of feathers and fluff that protrude from his skull. His lips are twisted up into a grin as he hopes the fight at hand will rekindle the inferno within under the guise of a flame far from that of love. The shivver that passed down his back surely wasn't from any chill as the wings of violet wreathed in azure flame span behind him to a total wingspan of about ten feet. Excitement began to flow through him as his wings began to expand and contract, their span reaching anywhere from five feet to well over twenty and beyond.
The depiction of a phoenix in tears is mirrored both upon the back of his loose fitting grey shirt and upon the tattoo on his back, the flames thereof almost moving as the tears seem to actually flow. Within his cargo pants a series of magical components he no longer truly needs are on hand, along with a few special pieces of equipment he saw fit to bring along, notably two travel sized grenades from his Aegis days. On his left hand three small bumps sit between the joints of his fingers while a series of pyramidal growths sit on the third bone of each finger -and the second of the thumb, passing inward- of the right. The left has a ghostly illumination cast about it while the first of the five seems to have a pale blue light glimmering within the skin.
Several components about his body seemed rather...unique. Floating about his head a series of planes of magical force deflect light and energy, almost as if they are intended to block not only physical assault, but mental assault as well. The strand of azure orbs floating about his neck glow with an unearthly power, a powerful aura of arcane magic hanging about them. A similar aura hangs about the chain wrapping about his arm and hand, the azure tint following the same line as the end of the chain flicks about his upturned palm, a metallic feather with jagged edges. The last two components that seem out of place are the orb of crimson light with flecks of green that surges about him at a constant speed and the cerulean glow about his boots that seems to bounce about out of sync with his own boots. He regards the orb with a smirk, "Brave, brave Sir Robin..." From there his words only descended into mocking laughter as the illusionary spell designed to create sound continued on.
