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 Posted: Tue Oct 31, 2006 3:33 pm
Synria Frahy vs. Jack Masters
FIGHT!
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Posted: Sat Nov 04, 2006 1:17 pm
The doors of the Arena creaked, rocking up with eerie squeek as the old and worn hinges came to life. The early fall leaves willowed in with the bitter fall breeze. A shadow etched itself out across the predestined battlefield, the leaves that entered just seconds ago caught sizzled, catching fire as they burnt to ash, the wind quiclky caught the crisp flakes of ash in a current and spiraled upwards into the surrounding stands.
Two black leather boots came into view, as the figure progressed out of the abyss and into the dim lighted entry way. His whole pressence brought on an eerie gothic scene wich gave hint to the deep depression barried deep within his soul. He wore a charcoal floor legth metador cape wich was pinned in the front by his Diadem of Vitality, a diamond clasp wich he considered to be a priceless personal affect.
He wore simple black pants made of cotton and polyester, with an underlying layer of spider silk to simply ensure durabillity as he's akeen to starting fights where ever he may be. Tied around his waist, and over his pants was a crimson scarf, its ends dangling loose and flauntering near his left center thigh, of no real purpose other than eligance and contained no spectacular traits other than being fire proof and made from spider-silk. Also strapped around his waist, a leather belt, complete with a luxurious scabbard laced to it over his left hip.
The thin scabbard was forged from dragon hide, melded into it's interior was a thin layer of spider silk with a slightly thicker layer of kevlar to ensure protection. Sheathed into this spectacular scabbard, was an even more astonishing blade. A rapier, measuring 48" in length, with a 6" hilt length. It weighs 2.78 lbs in total, and is balanced at precsely 22% of the length of the actual blade. The hilt had a combination grip, made of bioplas and dragon skin with a thin strip of crimson coloured spider silk for show. Embedded into the hilt, a small mystical emerald, sealed in by thin platinum wires. The blade was given the anme Todesteufel, being the brother blade of Todesengel whos owner, Mingan Nightwalker, gave him the vary sword. The sword, although seemingly ordinary, grants its owner with complete and utter control over the air and the earth.
He wore what would look like a black metadors cape, a crimson millitant jacket with various emblements and silver buttons was worn beneath, with a crimson shirt beneath that. The shirt was finely laced of an advanced spider silk and a new metal known as Solid Flame. The shirt was heat proof and billowed in to resist percussion of attacks, and was known to withstand up to a .50 callibur bullet without damaging side affects. The Millitary trench coat was decorated with various metals of honor, and was made of a flame resistent spider-silk and bioplas mixture. Laced within the linings of the jacket was a mythril armour coat, enchanted to weaken the supernatural by fifty percent and capable of thwarting most weapons known to date.
Placed diligently atop his skull was a rather elegent fedora, of no special properties aside from fire resistance and a sharp edge, and it holds the man's signature roses in the brim. The flower at hand was the 'Scarlet Carson'; a rose of magnificent beauty, long thought to be extinct, but alas, a man of the modern age uses them regularly as his calling card, a calling card of wich he often leaves with his vendetta's.
Just viewable in the background behind his fedora, was the hilt of another sword, the scabbard placed slightly horizontaly across his back. The dragon hide scabard held sheathed in it's confines the blade 'Aquilus'; a claymore, it was a strange silver in colour, almost mercuric and measured sixty inches in lenth from hilt to tip, a finely crafted sword as it was balanced perfectly and custom-made for him. Weighing only 5.5 lbs, the sword was quick and easy to wield. The sword itself contained no special abilities and seemed to not 'accep't enchantments whatsoever, 'Aquilus' is nigh unbreakable, being the only blade that can withstand the focused attack that he uses without shattering upon a single use. Reluctantly, it cannot be wielded by anybody but him, and contains a unique black diamond point in the pommel of it. For reasons later to be explained, or presented, the sword is one hundred percent resistant to flame.
This person was a tall and thin man of Carribbean descent with shiny raven hair. His hair was pinned back in a ponytail, laced together by a leather strap. The air about him was somewhat unsettling. His eyes seem to alternate colors: first a deep blue, then a true hazel, a organge band around the pupil, then what seems to be a firey yellow, never of the same hue or shade, but always with the same persistant flare.
If it weren't for his clothes, one could tell that his body is covered with intricate and complex tattoos, but unlike regular ones, the images and words appear to move across his body and the eye cannot seem to focus on any of them at all. Obviously of some magical importance, or simply magical in essence. There is a casual, cold hostility across his cruel, sensuous face. A look of a man on a mission.
Maddix's 5'9" body is lithe, skinny and aerodynamic, with a 40" chest and a 27" waist. His quadricepts have the lean power of a sprinter's, but his rear and legs are those of a distance runner. Despite his slight frame, he can still lift weights much higher than his 150 lb body would suggest. Though his opponent as well as the audiance would experience that first hand.
His facial features were not entirely viewable, as the beutiful fedora cast a augmented shadow across much of his face, and even still the heavy clothing concealed much everything else. It was quite obvious upon first view that this man was of a mysterious past, yet a prominent being who made his intentions heard.
He reached inwards towards his trench coat, flicking the side back as he reached in and pulled out a thick cigar, with a silver and crimson emblem as for it's only individual marking, the marking itself a crest. The crest was of a rapier a rose crossing, a crimson cross in the background and there seemed to be a trickle of blood dripping from the rose's thornn-- He bit into it's budd, tearing it off and spitting it into his hand. It wasn't long before the budd of the cigar was up in smoke and wavering among the rafters of the arena, leaving nothing but smuldered ashes where the tip of the cigar had landed. He brought the cigar to his lips as they corressed around it's filament, he hunched over as if blocking the wind from putting out a match, cuffing his ash ridden right hand around it's end as he placed his left middle and index finger onto it's end. He began puffing, his right hand moving from it's cupping posistion to the cigar as he skillfully turned it over the light flame now popping out of his two fingers, perfectly insink with each puff to ensure to light the whole end and not just a fraction.
Within a matter of moments the immediate area was filled with a delightful and easing aroma, as well as smoke. The man in the fedora hat seemed at ease now, and he made his way over to the center of the Arena.
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Posted: Mon Nov 06, 2006 9:37 am
Another resounding creak was heard as the opposite side's doos opened. The light of the arena, flooding from the flourescent lights smoothed its way into the dark hall from whence she came. The sky was slowly growing darker as waves of pink and orange swirled in the blue of the evening sky.
Nervousness quaked a bit in her stomach as she took in a deep breath. "If I'm going to go down...go down in a blaze of glory..." she thought to herself. An odd form of reassurance in its own pessimistic way. Her feet, in all their steel-toed boot-covered glory took their first steps towards the light. The light breeze in the air outside slowly came to her face and the long bangs that hung at a side part down the sides of her face, making for a lovely frame.
A rather tall woman, Synria stood at a good 5'11. The lime gaze took in the arena. The crowds were cheering. For mainly a blood bath, and not for the fighters, but it felt fairly good to have your name cheered on by people you didn't know. Maddix's name was flooding through the arena's crowds as well. While hers simply streamed in like veins. Fewer fans than the contender. Not surprising.
Her form was balanced, and toned. Balanced for both strength and speed, and to excell at both. She'd need to with her somewhat heavy armors and her weapon. A 29" waist made her more full bodied than her opponent, and not just taller. Her arms were kind of thick with muscle toning and so were her legs.
Her baggy black pants, made of the mixture of cotton with a bit of denim for durability. The pants hug at her hips in the front, and sat high in the back, due to her studded belt. Chains hung off her pants, one out of four was an actual wallet and not just a decoration. Underneath those big pants were leggings of super-small linked chain mail that went down to mid calf. Naturally, for comfort's sake she wore boxers underneath the chain mail. Not that her underwear is important or anything. The wind swayed the pants and random clanks of chain on hidden chained rung out faintly.
A slight honey tone coloured her fair skin, which complimented the snow white of her hair, braided and woven into a tight rope. A rope that fell to her a** from the top of her head. Her delicate face, a sort of round-ish face was disfigured by an enormous scar that ran right across her face from one eye brow to the corner of her mouth. Something got her good.
Worn up top, on her skin, was a soft silken ribbon, tied around her chest and ribs. Over that, a titanium chest plate that hooked all the way around her chest and over her ribs, completely covering the ribbon. And over that, to conceal the whole mess, a white tube top, with a fluffy black rim at the top.
All along her arms, she was bare, except for her gloves. A pair of padded black, fingerless gloves, with metal spikes sticking out of them at the knuckles. Sharpened and quite titanium.
Right brained and left handed, was obviously displayed in how she held her weapon. The glaive had two blades, both knife like, and a small sharp prong coming out of the top, just for stabbing. A thin skin of metal plated the shaft of the glaive. Barely adding weight at all. Durability, without the weight. I love the concept! The glaive's weight totaled somewhere around 45lbs. (I'm guessing.)
Enough about appearences, eh? Let's go back to the fun stuff...the actual progression of the fight. Synria's throat gulped as she took in another deep breath, using her mantra of "blaze of glory" (Thank you Bon Jovi) as reassurance. She boldly held her head high and no longer needed reassurance. No turning back now. Her steps glided as she moved 30 yards out from her previous placement in the arena's interior.
The opposing contender was smoking. How calm and collected he seemed. Synria matched this calmness and inner peace within a mere second. They smell nervousness. Oh yeah. They're crazy stuff, them fighters. And their odd smelling and everything. However, this feminine fighter smelled only tobacco arising from her opponent's placement. A thick smell.
One more step was taken, moving about six inches forward, holding her glaive against her lower back, her arms hooked over it to keep it sitting relaxed against her as she moved. The glaive itself wouldn't hurt her. It was at least 6'9 with the blades. (7 inch knife-like blades. The prong was not counted. Prong sits at least two and a half inches longer than the blades. Just an F.Y.I.) Deciding to, after this fight, to still be friends with her opponent, since...well...why the hell not? She put on a warmish smile and addressed her opponent.
"Well, Sir...if you win...I'll buy you a round of drinks." Alcohol leads to friendships, right? Of course it does. That's why alcoholics are so popular at parties and at the AA meetings.
Her smile then faded and she let her right arm free, gripping the glaive with her left as she pulled it from its position on her back, like unsheathing a sword. The blade was held out towards her opponent somewhat loosely, her left hand at a good 4 inches further towards the top than the middle point. The butt of the shaft leaning against her shoulder blade. Her arm didn't even flex hardly at all in order to hold the glaive up. Proof of excellance in strength? Sure. Whatever.
The glaive dropped as her opponent approached the center. A hand shake first? Okay. Carrying her glaive like a walking stick, she wandered over to the center and held out her right hand.
{ooc: I request no time limit. And please, I know the post sucks, but don't make fun. Dx
And if my vulgarity and general cheesiness in my posts bugs anyone, let me know. I'll go all elegant and boring for ya.}
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Posted: Mon Nov 06, 2006 4:06 pm
One of two fighters without a match decided, our Hero was condemned to spectation for the time being. He had seen the female warrior battle before, and he knew she was fierce and cold. The male was unknown to his steely eyes, but the scent of valour and strength wafted off of him like a cold mist on a muggy day. His metaphor attempt was a total piece, but he hardly cared at this point. The long wait between his fights had dulled his senses in slight ways, but such shame was for naught at this point.
He settled into his seat, his eyes locked at the sure flames to arise in the battlefield.
"G'luck..." His breath proved louder than his words, but his enunciation was enough to carry out the vowels and consonants.
And with that, he let the b***h goddess of battle carry on.
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Posted: Mon Nov 06, 2006 5:11 pm
As the spectacle of lady announced herself into the arena, Maddix attention shifted, from the lustful pleasure of his cigar to his newly appointed apponent. Leaving the cigar laying limp inbetween his thin lips, his right hand raised to meet the bowl of his fedora, removing it halfway, followed by a nod. His way of way of saying "How do you do?".
He puffed peculiarly on his stogy, producing a four clover wich wafted in the general direction of the mistress. To him, the innsense was to die for, but he got the impression it wasn't loved by the fans, or his opponent for that matter whos personaly seemed alter more than he preffered from his women. On the contrary, this young lass wasn't his, but he had hopes to tame her pretty quick.
He watched gleefully while his challenger made her way to the center, strapped to her back was a polearm of sorts he had never seen before. Not much different other than the style and posistioning of the blades themselves, but he assumed they were wielded the same way, and that was all that mattered. The beautiful women now closing in within yards of himself, has since entering removed her glaive from it's straps on her back and shifted it to her left her hand. His first clue.
"So ein Gluck." [[Good luck, =)]] He said, in a fine German accent. He took her outstreatched hand by the finger tips with his right, removing the cigar with his left he bowed deeply, playfully kissing the back of her palm as a smile etched its way upon his face once more. He returned the cigar, not to his mouth, but to his coat, still lit mind you. "And I would be delighted to bye you a drink after this bout, if I'm still alive that is." He winked, as if to lighten the mood for the tense young lady.
He decided early on that his opponent although a warrior, had not seen to many fights, the nervousness that orbited most veterans had long since depleted. Though when he felt her hands he could almost since the uncertainty. An interesting discovery at that.
He quickly debated wether to give his new opponent a test drive, to find her limits, if that were possible, or throw here the final exam right off. Each path had its downsides, if he explored her opponents skills, he might show to much of his own, or eventually she could find a flaw in his technique. Those would all be bad amends. Though threw everything he had all at once, what if it wasn't enough? And, if it did work, he wouldn't have the pleasure of learning more about his interesting opponent.
He made up his mind. "Ladie's first." He uttered, probably out of place, but he wanted to make the point that he was not a warrior, he was gentlement who occasionaly had an unstopable lust for blood shed. It's like a snickers bar, you take one bite, and you can not put it down. [[lawl, my analogy owns yours. xD @ Toastbusters]]
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Posted: Tue Nov 07, 2006 6:31 pm
When her hand was pecked, she courtsied. It helps with the confidence level if your opponent isn't a complete dipweed from hell thinking himself to be God or something spawned closely thereof. The glaive moved and its blade tilted to the side so she could be proper in her courtsey. Synria's feminine...kinda. With the end of her courtsey, she drew back, on the balls of her feet, she took two smooth steps back and smiled. Let the games begin. First...friendly banter.
"I don't know if I'll kill you. I am low on drink-money." Cute joke. Ha. Ha. Ha...no.
A couple more steps back. Her concentration grew a small amount. More banter. "I'm no lady, either. I've been compared to an angry old hermit man. I would prefer if you went first." She almost said 'Free shot', but the words wouldn't erupt. Stupidity isn't necessarily a good thing. Ever. God no. The blood lust was evident in this man. He reaked of strong scents. European colognes, and strong cigars. "Gutes gluck..." She muttered. German pronounciation was terrible. Obviously this woman didn't spend much of her European time in Germany.
Another few steps. Her plan was sure. No chances would be taken beyond letting him go first.
The breeze kicked up a bit and then died down, sensing its own annoying tendencies to well...exist. Spectators began to silence themselves and watched quietly. Synria's gaze popped to Gath with a smirk, and then back down to her opponent. Acknowledgement to someone on her side.
The glaive went from slightly to the side, to her strong grip in her left hand, moved quickly back to its position a bit further than the middle of the glaive. Her legs slipped from straight as a board, to bent-ish. And now...the taunting and the banter was complete. Concentration was raised, and the waiting shall begin.
{I like Snickers...}
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Posted: Wed Nov 08, 2006 2:05 pm
"Well, I guess I'll find out the hard way, though the idea of you having pity on my soul isn't appealing to me..." He said, ending his own banter, and he began to concentrate.
Maddix nodded, declaring the start of the battle. He reached back, untieing the leather strip that kep his hair in a pony tail, letting fall to down to his back. The wind stifled, an eerie silence settling in over the crowd, Maddix' fingers twitched and a powerful gust errupted from behind him. Not strong enough to send him to the ground, sand shifted on the arena floor.
He reached into his militant jacket, retreaving a handfull of rose pedals. He too move backwards, in a powerful bound, he leapt a good 10 yards away from his opponent. His grip on the crimson, silky, pedals lightened, slipping from his grasp. The powerful wind, obviously a tool in the mechanics of his actions, sent the pedals aloft as they scattered around Synria. The wind swirling them in a circle before lightning, leaving various pedals adrift around her.
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Posted: Thu Nov 09, 2006 1:11 pm
{Did you just throw lightning-covered flower petals at me? Oo;
Do they act as a generator for the lightning, is the flow continuous? Or is it just a charge are they just simply carrying the electricity?}
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Posted: Thu Nov 09, 2006 8:18 pm
[[Oops, neither. Typo on my part. When I said lightning I meant "it lightened" or I you could say "lessened". I can see why that was confusing and I don't know how I butchered that so bad. =D]]
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Posted: Thu Nov 16, 2006 3:50 pm
Hey! Hey! Getchya' body in motion! Getchya' body in motion! Start some commotion!
...translated out of dance/rave lingo, that means "shitgodown, or threadgetclose".
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Posted: Fri Nov 17, 2006 7:57 pm
[[You don't have to tell me that, Synria seems to have taken an extended league of absense. She hasn't been on for 4 days and hasn't returned my PM(s). So I don't know what to do, but close it if you must...]]
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Posted: Sat Nov 18, 2006 6:26 pm
Jack_Masters [[You don't have to tell me that, Synria seems to have taken an extended league of absense. She hasn't been on for 4 days and hasn't returned my PM(s). So I don't know what to do, but close it if you must...]] ((I'll give her a reminder next time she's on MSN.))
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