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Match Start: September 6th, 2011 @ 12:00PM EST
Match End: October 6th, 2011 @ 12:00 PM EST
Post Response Limit: 4 days

Selected Stage:

Kyrvktz: The Great Swamp

Approximately a mile northwest of the lobby lies the edge of a massive swamp, which stretches for hundreds of miles across Kyrvktz. The massive bog can be spotted fairly easily from space. In all four boundary-defined battlegrounds, dead trees litter the landscape; their trunks have an average diameter of 8 feet. With no leaves, some light is able to get through the 40 foot tall canopy, but due to the constant duskfall state of the planet, visibility is still low. On average, four inches of murky (but still workable) water covers the mud below, which conceals massive amounts of skeletal and (on occasion) flesh-ridden remains of various unknown creatures. Strangely enough, these creatures have all had their souls pilfered (normally they remain in the body for a few days or so). Each pair of combatants has a hard-defined area of 250 meters squared.

In addition, undead swamp creatures lurk about the contestants. Their nature is passive to the point where they only watch, and do not attack.

First Post: Kei'Taro

May the strongest grass blade emerge tallest.

Death. The stench of long-dead creatures greeted him first as he landed near the midst of another swamp, perhaps a futuristic version of the one he fought in during the first round. Thus far, all his rounds had something in common, forests and woodland. This place was the worst of the three, so far. Finally, his eyes opened for a visual representation of his environment, and his worst fears had come to light -- the dead bodies were those reminiscent of animals, and though he had seen the death of creatures before, this was nothing short of a massacre and graveyard. His breath caught in his chest, and his back pressed against a still standing forty foot tree. This was too much.

Catching his breath and mustering the strength to move forward, he stepped away from his backing and completed a three-sixty, surveying the rest of the horrendous site. The Great Swamp? It should have been called the Dead Swamp. Nothing thrived for long here, even now, the ground and murky, muddy waters were littered with dead bodies and trunks. Souls of the dead were not allowed here. Rustling brought to his attention the undead that still managed to scavenge the land, perhaps looking for a soul to call their own. One such sighting told him they could barely hold on to their material forms without the presence of their souls, a saddening sight.

“I am sorry I could not be here to protect you all,” Kei’taro said as a single tear fell from his eyes. A hat, wide brimmed all the way around, hid his eyes. With a deep breath, he began to walk deeper into the Dead Swamp. His hand grasped at the hilt of Kusanagi, reminiscent of a man wandering off for the last time. It didn’t take him long to come upon a large pool of swamp water. The lack of depth told him there was something hidden in those disgusting waters, perhaps the remains of what once traversed the land as proud warriors. Part of him wondered if there was ever any significant building built in the middle of this large forest, if any civilization was responsible for what he saw before him, death and decay. A silent prayer escaped his lips, and though it was short, it did its job; perhaps there was a god in these lands.

Kei’taro took a moment and remembered that he was scheduled to do battle on these lands, lands already marred by the vicious effects of long battles. “Perhaps, Khayyam, as he is called, would like to forfeit his end of the bargain and simply walk away.” Such thoughts were wishful thinking, Raven and Gado had not chosen to escape by forfeit, and those were earlier rounds, there was no reason to think that Khayyam would do the same, especially when he had made it this far, the semi-finals of the Grassroots tournament.

Taking to staking out the rest of his surroundings, he found a particularly clear section of land and stood towards the western boundary of it. Thick trees circled the land, and dead trees littered the middle, as well as flesh-coated skeletal remains. Some Undead stalked the land, moving like a simple tumbleweed pushed by wind. In the dusk, there was dying light, and in the dusk there was his advantage. Strands of his hair danced from beneath his hat in a small breeze, which also carried the sound of another dying creature, another lost soul. This would be ended quickly, and he would do a more complete prayer back in the safety of his room, unless he was added to the collection of death and decay that seemed pervert the land.

Was this the Beast Master’s Final Stand…

The veteran warrior took his position atop a large, partially submerged piece of deadfall. The exposure of a fully intact root system suggested that the mighty tree had succumbed to the forces of some great wind, failing to hold fast in the muddy footing provided in the murky waters. There it lay, dormant, taking its place beside its fallen brothers. The scattered remnants of what was once a great stand of tree would now provide a broken pathway to avoid trudging through the murky water ridden with decay. Even in the partial clearing amid the thick trees that still stood circling the perimeter of the Great Swamp there was only a faint light in the perpetual dusk that lit the area.

Rotting corpses watched from the dark dancing shadows stirred by the light breeze. There they waited expectantly in the hopes of feeding on fresh flesh to be scavenged in the aftermath of the conflict. During his search, roughly a hundred feet to the North, he stumbled upon his foe. The solitary figure was found surveying the battlefield from a small isolated patch of solid ground. Khayyam couldn’t help but wonder if that pet of his lurked somewhere in the dense shadows, waiting for its opportunity to pounce. Given the pale light that filtered through the barren branches of the canopy many distinct details were hard to define. This made the task of finding the predatory beast that much harder to perform. It was likely that it wouldn’t be until the animal sprung from its hiding place that Khayyam would uncover his position and react.

“Be alert Shaisma, this could be a trap.”

The Protector still represented the skin tight form that accompanied the warrior into his last conflict, a head to toe garment of black, red, and gold that featured a series of ornate wheels. The discs would seemingly simulate a series of coiling snakes moving about his body, giving the impression of constant motion. Contributing to the illusion, a brilliant green sash twisted and coiled as it stretched extending up his arm. The ‘magical’ binding, Hafsa, returned to Khayyam by the red-headed cleaning worker who had failed to convince Kei’Taro into taking possession of the item.

The writhing cloth positioned the weighted knot at the end of her length end dancing in the palm of the left hand of her master, hypnotically waving side to side in a snake-like fashion. From a distance in the low light conditions one could easily mistake the item as a real serpent. With the gatherer, as the Arab warrior affectionately dubbed her, poised at his fingertips waiting to be released into action Khayyam stepped forward near the edge of his wooden bridge.

He judged the distance to the next deadfall log to be roughly ten feet away. A modest jump with a running start for the five foot man made even easier with the leverage he could attain using the six foot bamboo bo stick, held firmly in his right hand. The adjactent deadfall would offer a better strategic position than the one he currently stood upon. Khayyam’s soft caramel eyes fixated upon his faceless opponent hidden beneath the wide brimmed straw hat. His opponent had a few tricks of his own if the Arab warrior’s memory served correctly.

Kie’Taro had displayed a knack to throw lightning, a formidable offensive weapon in the four inches of murky water one might have to traverse. There was the wooded weapon the animal warrior wielded Khayyam referred to as “Pinocchio’s nose”, capable of rapid extension to extreme lengths to impale the careless.

“Good luck my friend.” Khayyam shouted the cordial greeting.
“I don’t know how much I have left in the tank, but I am willing to give it the old college try. Let’s see if we can give these folks something to talk about around the village watering hole tonight.”

Even deeper in the Dead Swamp changed nothing. The creatures that once called this foul place home had become shells of their former shelves, pathetic, wretched things that stalked the land in search for something they could never obtain, a soul. It would seem those who had found comfort in death had it better off than the ones who clung to a perverted form of life. Their will would never be forgotten. The pale light cast unto their skin, revealing just how much of their bone was shown to the world, just how much of them had given away to decay, and how much of them had managed to stick together, as if by a miracle or magic. Part of him wondered if this was punishment for his actions against Gado and the forest. Was he forced to go through the same thing that he put the plant manipulator through? Such a cruel fate! Perhaps Gado was now getting a jolly laugh at his expense, if the man was indeed watching him through some odd means.

His opponent saw him first, perhaps, but Kei’taro heard him approaching. Even in this Dead Swamp, sound was still as clear as the waters of a serene beach. Tilting his head, he looked towards the man and saw him through partial view, due to his hat obstructing his sight. The man, Khayyam was to the south, standing atop what Kei’taro assumed was a dead tree. From what he knew of the man, which wasn’t much, he had two dogs; RyuKyu had seen them being fed by the man in one of the earlier rounds. From what he observed the man was scouting the land for something, perhaps he was looking for what anyone else who paid attention would look for, the Lion-Dog. However, that was for naught, as RyuKyu hadn’t made an appearance of yet, and was nestled deep inside the spirit of Kei’taro, awaiting his own orders, should any come.

‘Be alert Shaisma, this could be a trap,’

There was no one there with him, so who was he talking too? Kei’taro’s own eyes and ears went to work, searching the land for anything that could be a threat to his person. Aside from what already resided here, it seemed that only Khayyam and Kei’taro were the only two living things within the Swamp, depending on your definition. His eyes returned back to his opponent and that was where he noticed the movement of the man’s attire and the strangely serpentine movements of his scarf. His scarf! It was highly similar to the one that the woman, Nadia, offered him. Was it truly a trap all along? With the way the attire moved, it seemed like something dangerous to wear; like it could have choked him out, should he had worn it.

Pulling Kusanagi slightly out of the sheathe, revealing the brittle edges of the straight sword, particularly near the hilt. This was done, because his bo-staff wielding opponent had made a sudden jump to a nearby fallen log. Black, red, and gold, were what adorned his Arabian opponent, remarkably colors, Kei’taro thought. Moving quickly, he leapt unto a dead log himself, for a slightly higher position than he had previously. From where, he had access to several higher positions, in the form of sturdy looking tree branches, and stacks of logs that had fallen on each other throughout what could have been decades of time.

He knew little of his opponent, choosing not to study the footage of previous fights. Not like he had two for his two previous fights; Raven and Gado lent themselves to showing him their numerous abilities within the first few moments of their fights, perhaps that had been their downfall. Did Khayyam know more about Kei’taro than the rest? It was certainly plausible, but that would manifest itself in a short while.

‘Good luck my friend. … I don’t know how much I have left in the tank, but I am willing to give it the old college try. Let’s see if we can give these folks something to talk about around the village watering hole tonight.’

It seemed, by his word choice, that Khayyam was a highly intellectual man. This would be difficult, the others showed no tendency of intellect, either in words or actions. “Well, sir, if you’ll excuse my demeanor, this place offers me nothing but hurt. I must ask, as I did Raven O’ Grady, my first round opponent. Would you like to forfeit this battle and carry on with your every day life? You seem intelligent, and making it this far is no easy feat, therefore strong. A victory here would do nothing much for a man like yourself.” Kei’taro did not expect him to quit the fight without fighting first and that was perfectly fine. As he started speaking, he had began charging one of the tattoos on his frame, Thunderbird. A faithful skill.

“Please give me strength, my Bestial Friends,” he spoke to himself, before discarding his hat and withdrawing Kusanagi fully.

“Would you like to forfeit this battle and carry on with your every day life? You seem intelligent, and making it this far is no easy feat, therefore strong. A victory here would do nothing much for a man like yourself.”

“I could ask the same favour of you,” Khayyam responded, “although your actions broadcast your reply. You have already thrown down your gauntlet so to speak. Keeping with tradition, I am bound to perform the honourable action and accept.”

Khayyam sealed the challenge with a similar gesture of his own, removing the stainless steel shears from his belt and tossing it four feet in front of his position towards his competitor. The eight inch blades vibrated slightly before the instrument came to rest sticking vertically from the rotting wooden platform. The wispy green sash trailed behind the discarded tool, shed by the same gesture, falling lifelessly beside the metal scissors. The warrior’s rich brown eyes rested intently upon Kei’taro, judging his response to the acceptance.

The furrow of Khayyam's thick brow deepened as his thoughts converged. He did not share his challenger’s discomfort among the death and decay that surrounded them. The nomadic Arab was accustomed to the stench of death dabbling in the darker gypsy arts of curses and voodoo and embracing their practices. The wily tentmaker had already formulated a plan. Slowly floating mere fractions of an inch from his platform, arms outstretched, he began weaving the invisible strings that would bring his competitor’s fears to life. The muddy waters nearby the bestial warrior bubbled and swirled with the components drawing together and moulded into shape; the product of the acolyte’s efforts hidden beneath the shallow opaque waters.

‘I could ask the same favour of you, … although your actions broadcast your reply. You have already thrown down your gauntlet so to speak. Keeping with tradition, I am bound to perform the honorable action and accept.’

And that was that. His opponent would take the route of Raven and Gado, he would continue to the fight as planned, and as Kei’taro expected. With his words, the man removed a pair of shears and tossed them towards Kei’taro, though not all the way; they came to a fall four feet in front of him. He positioned his foot to slide back and readjust him an additional two feet back, his grip on Kusanagi, tightening slightly. The scarf no longer acted like a snake, leading Kei’taro to believe the weapon acted so in contact with Khayyam, though that would be inconsistent with the man trying to use it as sabotage.

Steadily he watched the man, Thunderbird coursing through his body ready to be used. No, not yet; it would remain with him, gaining another charge, in preparation for the show that was to come. Something was off, his opponent now floated, his arms were stretched and the waters around Kei’taro bubbled and swirled. “What?” He asked himself, leaping from his position to a higher one, a stack of logs that were firmly rooted to the ground. With the dominance of height, he carefully watched the man and looked upon the muddy waters; watching the contents of the soup shift and form together.

“What manner of foul play is this? Disturbing the dead?!” Kei’taro yelled out, holding the Straight Sword at play, aimed directly at the neck of the man, though from several feet away. Wary of the dead animals, Kei’taro began forming plans, preparing himself for the onslaught that was to come should he not be prepared. Quickly, he achieved a footing that would allow him to quickly move, or set a strong defensive base. Whatever his opponent had planned would not end well for Kei’taro, and Kei’taro would make sure it didn’t end well for Khayyam.

“What manner of foul play is this? Disturbing the dead?!”

It was coming. He could sense it as the man held out the wooden straight sword toward him. The strike would come fast, as displayed in his previous match with Gado. Add to this arsenal, the lightning fast strike of his electrically charged attacks the tentmaker would have little time to react if caught unaware. Regardless of the form, Khayyam was prepared, already anticipating the impeding attack and positioned his defenses accordingly.

"It is the dead that seek our attention, longing to be useful again. Why do you think they rise from their beds of mire to wander these lands?"
“RISE!” Khayyam commanded.

The wannabe houngan cupped his slender fingers, twisting his right hand until the worn palm faced upward, thrusting the loose fist into the air as if plucking a hearty tubular vegetable from the rich fertile gardens. The shambling creation, he had gathered from the scattered parts within the muck and the mire of Kyrvktz’s Great Swamp, rose methodically to the calling of Khayyam's mind, taking with it the discarded straw hat that floated nearby. The wide brimmed item stat prominently upon the straight brown grasses representing hair that fell just below the simulated chin, adding dramatically to the haunting image portrayed. The six foot one mud covered construct of rotting flesh, bone, and plant life bore a striking resemblance to the man situated twenty feet above upon a stack of logs. In its right hand, a straight, flat stick, that may well have been a discarded scabbard.

“Ain Badriyah.” The Arab gypsy muttered the simple incantation.

At the words the construct’s head snapped up with seemingly unnatural life, a puppet of Khayyam's mental strings. The glowing slits peering out from underneath the wide brimmed hat to rest upon its living counterpart nestled high upon the stacks of logs. The flat, four foot stick, clutched in the abomination's boney grip extended aimed directly at the neck of its double, mimicking the bestial warrior’s own stance.

He watched the man, the flashes of anger that circled in his eyes mistaken as no other. This man sought to manipulate the dead that lay here, cowering for a soul; a monster stood before him. He had crossed many of them in his lifetime and they all left him with a sour taste. Those who manipulate and make the dead dance for them, had no souls in the eyes of Kei’taro, especially the ones that made the dead creatures their playthings.

‘It is the dead that seek our attention, longing to be useful again. Why do you think they rise from their beds of mire to wander these lands? … RISE!”

“They rise no longer, THUNDEBIRD,” Kei’taro commanded just as Khayyam issued his own decree of dominance. With Kusanagi aimed at the neck of the supposed necromancer, this would truly be a dance of grace and speed, but could the man who mastered the dead, master the world and escape a twice-charged bolt of lightning? Khayyam’s hand had begun to rise when the lighting cracked from the pointed end of the steel blade of Kusanagi, which had cut down the distance to a meager fifteen and a half feet, with his arm extended as well as the blade pointing; roared like a mighty storm as it cut a path through the air with its ferocity. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the figure that was emerging from the mire, from the depths of the underworld to serve a master under attack, but would it, in itself, be too late to save the monster that had just awoke it from its eternal slumber.

The man had done something horrible, he had crafted his own undead, molded it into the likeness of his opponent, into the likeness of Kei’taro. Right down to his hat, which, for all truth was Kei’taro’s own discarded headgear. Shifting backwards, he positioned himself to be in position to strike the undead should it attack, or defend against Khayyam should he survive the lightning shot, and make another move.

As a nomadic traveler living off the lands Khayyam had many opportunities to marvel at the majestic brilliance of lightning and the devastating effects that it was capable of producing. He knew that once the raw power of the bolt was released there would be little he could do physically to react to the sheer speed of such a strike.

“THUNDERBIRD”

Even as the beast master’s command registered within the Arab warrior’s brain, the wooden sword had extended seventy-five feet, lightning cracking from its splintered tip, as it cut a path through the air with untamed ferocity. Shaisma instantly began evacuation efforts sensing the life threatening danger in order to safeguard his king. Even with the carpet suit’s magical awareness and reflexes, the supercharged bolt would have succeeded in its deadly purpose had it not been for the preventative measures Khayyam had implemented for just such an action.

Khayyam realized that the lightning did not always follow a straight line, following the path of least resistance to be influenced by conducting substances like metal and other electrical charges. He also knew that if a target is not grounded the electrostatic bolt would have little effect. It was these two principles the formed the majority of Khayyam’s defense against the destructive charge. The metal shears sticking out from the water logged deadfall, located between Khayyam and the origin of the charge , captured the oncoming lightning leader, diverting the path away from the floating gypsy bokor and dispersed through the dense biomass of the fallen tree’s root system.

With the destructive charge funneled and grounded into the water soaked bog, the Protector was afforded the time needed to move its king to safety, carrying him rapidly to a height of thirty feet above the surface of Kyrvktz’s Great Swamp. The vast electrical charge traveled rapidly through the conductive waters of the quagmire, almost instantly reaching the Kei’Taro monster. The electrical current, which passed through the muddy waters, had no effect on the mixed collection of flesh, bone and plant life that rose from the mire.

Without warning or hesitation the doppelganger seemed to duplicate the attack even as the bestial warrior shifted backwards into his defensive position. While the construct was not able to duplicate the electrical charge or an elongated extension as the wooden artifact Kusanagi, the algae covered scabbard that had been extended towards Kei’Taro did shoot forth, accelerated from the boney hand with the speed and force as if it had been launched by a powerful ballista. The racing four foot projectile would likely come as a surprise, released without so much as a twitch from the shambling mound, covering the twenty-five foot gap in the blink of an eye.

The suddenness and speed of the attack, along with the precarious position of the target upon the stacked logs and the seventy- five foot extension of the weapon in Kei’Taro’s outstretched arm, would drastically cut down the man’s ability to avoid the incoming attack. If the makeshift spear were to strike the unarmored chest of its target, the weight and velocity of the projectile would be sufficient enough to penetrate deeply and puncture the heart,possible passing straight through the victim.

“K'dee... k'dee... k'dee-dee-dee.. deet-deet-deet-dee.” The loud shrill whistle fluctuated from Khayyam’s lips punctuating the attack. The birdlike serenade prompted Hafsa to silently slither and disappear into the muddy waters obscured amid the captivating distraction of the proximity of the daunting muck monster.

Already in motion, he did not take much for the agile man to evade the oncoming scabbard. Taken aback by the mimicry of his own special maneuver, Kei’taro used the edge of Kusanagi to deflect the shooting scabbard skyward and with enough force to point the blade in an arc that would take it towards Khayyam. With his movement complete, he slithered backwards, aware of his position between two highly deadly opponents; one of which, by all rights, should have died in the lightning strike, had it not been for the shears, perhaps this would be over. Perhaps a repeat performance was needed.

Keeping his eyes on Khayyam, above, and the monster below, the Beast Master began forming different strategies, to combat a two on one situation. With a steady foot hole, Kei’taro bounced unto a slightly higher branch, covered in thick branches of leaves. Moving swiftly, he positioned himself behind one of the thicker trunks and peered out towards Khayyam, and then on the other side towards the beast. Both had been in a relatively position of easy location. Perhaps they were still there, and had yet to make a move.

There were no chances to be taken. His first act constituted of him beginning to charge another Thunderbird, ready to launch it at a moment’s notice towards the man that was now, roughly, two or three feet higher than he was, though not directly. For once, he was playing defense, but he’d be sure to change that in the coming moments; for his position in the murky swamps steadfast trees made him feel comfortable. Kusanagi was held in a position to allow him to evade, and use it for balance in such, or to deflect any oncoming blows that might prove detrimental to the livelihood of the Beat Master.

His second course of action had seen him activate Chameleon, a bestial key that caused him to become camouflaged, making spotting him nearly impossible. With his surroundings, one would have to look very hard for motions that would not be otherwise detectable. His plan was to draw out Khayyam and get him in an closer position, though where he was now would be suitable. Catching his breath, he allowed his ears to do the rest of the work. Carefully listening for the monster, or the subtle breathing of the man above. Either way, someone would find death or defeat, by the end of the this match.

Even as the cat-like warrior made his escape, gracefully bouncing to a slightly higher branch and positioning himself behind one of the thicker trunks, the deadly projectile silently made its return. The hurling sheath had been unceremoniously displaced from its target, in a singular lightning fast movement of the seemingly brittle blade, harmlessly deflecting the deadly bolt to pass up and over the bestial warrior, or so the target thought. Despite the heroic deflection, Khayyam had never relinquished the invisible control he had placed upon the fibrous object that had been sent skyward. Under his influence, the four foot projectile promptly circled like a boomerang and returned towards the exposed backside of the unsuspecting foe, carrying with as much inertial and strength as the original attack.

Khayyam observed the unfolding events, floating slightly downward and to his right making it harder to keep tabs upon the levitating menace with Kei’Taro peering towards him, off to one side of the cover, and then on the other side towards the construct. The subtle movement would force the beast warrior to lean further and further from the safety of his cover increasing the span he would have to continuously navigate in order to keep a watchful eye upon two attackers. The shambling mound appeared to crouch, reaching into the muddied waters, as the psychokinetic allocated minimal resources to hold the makeshift monster together, continuing the visual distraction.

Notwithstanding his lack of physical exhibition, Khayyam was fast at work, skilfully guiding the swift moving scabbard in its return to avoid the thick branches of leaves, with a mental precision capable enough to manoeuvre a thread through the eye of a needle from across a room. If the makeshift spear were to strike home, the weight and velocity of the water soaked, algae covered object would tear though the back of the unarmored torso, just under the shoulder blade near the spine, pinning the beast master to the thick trunk he had chosen for cover. All the while Hafsa move closer positioning himself to strike.

’You know its broken, right?’ A gruff voice said from deep within Kei’taro, as the man sought to lift his arm once more. It turned out, that the extreme speed he used to deflect the blade had caused more damage to him, than it did to his opponent. Perhaps if Kei’taro had of been paying attention, he would have heard the horrible rending of flesh and bone, as his arm snapped in twine from the speed of the movement and the force of the opposing object. The pain that he felt had been numbed by the presence of adrenaline in his system, but in the time he had taken to scout out his opponents from behind the tree, the adrenaline died off and left him with an unsurpassable pain. To make matters worse, his opponent still masterfully weaved the sheathe blade to hunt down Kei’taro, much like how he envisioned the poor creatures of the Dead Swamp to have been.

”Well, yeah, RyuKyu, I know that now. He voiced, outloud rather than within himself. At the moment, he knew all hope for him in this tournament had been lost, due to a single, foolhardy mistake. His father, the Spirit Beast King, would not take kindly to this disgrace; but perhaps further still, he would not get to return the music player to Ministrati. ”AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! Kei yelled as the projectile object lodged itself near his spine, ironically the hand holding the Kusanagi blade. Blood painted inches away from where the sheathe entered. The icy grip associated with crippling partial paralysis took hold, and the blade he held dear dropped to the ground. Another part of the Dead Swamp, perhaps another would find it and unlock its power. “Dam-- nit,”, mouthed, spitting up just a bit of blood.

Reaching his free hand around the tree, he placed it forward with his palm upward; in some places, a signal for surrender. “Khay-- yam… Khay-yam… come, come. I am defeated, my other arm is pinned, and paralyzed. Your monster did the trick,” Kei’taro was beside himself, he had only one card to play and his conscious struggled with the frightening reality of him having to void himself of all the humanity had gained, and seek to sabotage another man. Could he do that to another, who had outright bested him in such a short time? Was he has petty as Gado, as low as the weed? ”Come, let me converse with you, in my last moments.” Khayyam had done more damage than Kei’taro had realized, or had just begun to realize. There was little chance that he’d leave the Swamp alive, much less with a secure victory.

”I wish to ask a favor of you,” the man pinned to the tree stated. Into his pocket he fished, hunting for the musical device that belonged to the man known as Ministrati. When he found it, he gripped it in his hand, he closed his fist around it and pulled it out. ”I always promised myself that I’d give this back to that man, myself, but I fear I cannot. Please deliver this to him, and tell him that I, am truly sorry. I know your scarf dances to its own drum, so I wish to hand this directly to you, Khayyam, a sign of respect and trust between warriors; something that is seen, in its rarest form, between the beasts I mastered.” His head was pressed against the truck of the tree, as he awaited the approach of Khayyam and his acceptance or denial of the task. Should he say yes, and reach out to accept the music device, the hidden face of Kei’taro would whisper out Thunderbird, as he released the item; releasing the charged lightning directly unto Khayyam; the Arabian Warrior.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

The piercing scream released by the tree hugging quarry as the bolt completed its return, was the early indicator the boomeranged projectile had struck its mark. A solitary splash, and a drawn out curse trailed closely behind in the brief moments that followed the agonizing cry. The solitary measure of the strike’s success was revealed by the words of the targeted man himself, indicating the scabbard had pinned and paralyzed his weapon arm rationalizing the splash that had been heard moments before. A barren palm stretched out from behind the tree, perhaps as an offering of goodwill, but, held no meaning for the foreign warrior.

“Come, let me converse with you, in my last moments.”

“He keeps bidding me to come." Khayyam pondered. "Almost begging me to draw near.” The man was rumored to be a master of beasts and as such, playing possum would be well within his repertoire. While his opponent had omitted defeat he had yet to formally surrender. Despite the apparent fortune of his attack, he had no intention of carelessly exposing himself and allow Kei’Taro to level the playing field.

Trying to get a better vantage point as he sought visual confirmation to the declaration, Khayyam warily shifted his position, putting merit in the notion that a wounded animal is at its most dangerous. Circling his catch, the Arab warrior advanced floating but a few feet from the surface of the murky waters. As he drew near the position of the slouching mound, the psychokinetic mentally bid the crudely fashioned creature to stand erect once more, placing the collected creation of bone and mire between Kei’taro and himself. The shambling mound utilized as a provisional shield that would afford Khayyam a closer look as the music box was displayed.

“I always promised myself that I’d give this back to that man, myself,” Kei’Taro remarked. “But I fear I cannot. Please deliver this to him, and tell him that I am truly sorry. I know your scarf dances to its own drum, so I wish to hand this directly to you, Khayyam, a sign of respect and trust between warriors; something that is seen, in its rarest form, between the beasts I mastered.”

Kei’Taro’s own words had betrayed him. His attestment to the scarf’s unique nature in such a manner set off warning bells within Khayyam that perhaps, the man had put two and two together in regards to his encounter with Nadia. If such was the case, his waning opponent’s eagerness to an intimate exchange could only mean bad news for the Gypsy, it had to be a trap. Suspicious of the possible deception, Khayyam narrowed his thoughts focusing upon the wooden stake that impaled his opponent, the aforementioned Hafsa now slithering into position only a few feet away from the Beast Master’s feet poised to strike.

“Why should I burden myself with its return?” Khayyam inquired; each passing moment further sealing the Beast Master’s doom. “For even if I made that promise, there is no guarantee that I would not succumb to a similar fate as you now face before this tournament ends.”

The answer was not important; Khayyam already carried with him heavy burdens of his own making. He did not wish to add to that overshadowing load. The man before him was but a stepping stone to an end, a chance to save face and lessen the guilt, although his next decision did not come lightly. With a sudden mental thrust psychokinetic directed a forceful surge upon the wooden scabbard which nailed his opponent to the tree, causing the fibrous spike to fragment into dozens of long needle-like slivers. The rapidly radiating projectiles would likely tear organs and soft flesh as they made their rapid exodus through Kei’Taro’s body, ending with it the prolonged suffering the beast man would likely endure with the probability that blood was currently filling his lungs.

’Why should I burden myself with its return? … For even if I made that promise, there is no guarantee that I would not succumb to a similar fate as you now face before this tournament ends.’

His opponent was a wary one, like an animal on the verge of death, suspicious of anything capable of killing it. A smile crept across the lips of the dying Master, his sword already having abandoned him. ”I suppose you’re right. You’ve made it this far though, and you have now been guaranteed a spot in the finals. You did goo--,” his words were cut off by a vicious fit of coughing. The musical device slipped from his hands and fell down to the mire below, joining the numerous things that hid just below the surface.

’You know, if the runner of this revives us, Ministrati is going to be pissed.’ RyuKyu said, fading away, further and further into the abysmal pits of Volcanic Plains. He was returning home, the heat that danced from its mother lapped at the face of Kei’taro.

”Well, yeah; but can he really blame us for messing up?” Kei’taro asked within himself, darkness closing around him with the cold touch of Death’s embrace. It was fitting, he presumed, to die in the midst of the Dead Swamp, as he called it. His heart squeezed, the pressure of death had increased -- Perhaps this was what the rest of the creatures that died here felt -- cutting off what little life force he was continually drawing. If ever there was a time someone was living off borrowed time, this was it. He could hear his father’s voice ’Your failure shames me. Of all those I’ve seen, you, my son, had the most potential for expansion. Forever banished here with me.’

Words no longer formed from thought, shrapnel went through his frame. His organs were pierced, his suffering coming to the ends. No, his eyes did not close; instead, they looked down at the Kusanagi sword that sat deep in the mire; the brittle sword glowing a nice green one more time, before Kei’taro breathed his last breath. RyuKyu had finally left, returned to the care of its mother, and Kei’taro to that of his father.

“I suppose you’re right. You’ve made it this far though, and you have now been guaranteed a spot in the finals. You did goo--,” his words were cut off by a vicious fit of coughing.

The musical device he had offered slipped from his weakening hand, falling to disappear into the muddy waters of the mire. It was quick, and he had hoped humane, as the wooden shrapnel exploded from the broken frame. The engrossed gaze of the dying Beast Master captured Khayyam’s attention. The lifeless brown eyes fixated upon the fallen brittle sword, he had called Kusanagi, which glowed with an eerie green glow deep within the mire, and fading shortly after the Beast Master drew his last breath.

Khayyam held his position for several minutes, surrounded by the hushed silence of the dead swamp, diligently watching the body for any signs of life from his opponent. There was naught a movement even as Hafsa investigated, coiling up the dangling arm to poke a probing snake-like knot in the injured party’s face. “It’s over, Hafsa.” Khayyam solemnly stated floating toward the lifeless mass heaped against the thick trunk. Drawing near, he reached out pulling the lifeless corpse into his arms.

As the body was moved, the tattered and torn garment fell open revealing a magnificent mural of animals scrolled across the torn fleshy canvass. Khayyam was almost mesmerized by the exacting detail penned by the inked body art as he pulled back the clothing to reveal more of the masterpiece. One by one he tracked the motifs across the flesh, a tortoise, a crazed monkey, a flock of crows, a few of the many he distinguished. His stalking gaze loitered, reaching down to touch the dark stylized tattoo partially obscured within a pool of crimson fluid.

“Thunderbird.” He whispered in awe. He could not but wonder if the animal icons were somehow connected to the man’s powers.“Such a waste.”Khayyam reflected taken aback by the intricacies of the masterwork.

It didn’t have to be, not with the talents the Arabian Gypsy possessed. It was a crazed plan, bordering on distasteful, desecrating the dead, but Khayyam rationalized the man lying there wouldn’t be using them anytime soon. Methodically he began to work his magics, stripping the man’s skin from his body as if he were unraveling a knitted blanket, pulling it apart in one long fine strand before reweaving the fleshy thread to intertwine them with his own. Slowly the inked canvassed revealed itself, line by line, upon its new host, a magnificent spectacle that would serve as a reminder of this day as the Fabricator outstretched an arm watching the final images appear.

Khayyam then lowered himself to retrieve the sunken treasure that the Beast Master remained fixated upon in his waning moments. The object didn’t appear to be anything more than a brittle and broken straight sword. Appearances were deceiving as the scaling three foot blade was able to turn away the forceful blow that Khayyam had sent at its master. A feeble six or seven pounds yet somehow capable of miraculous feats. The Arab deceiver would need this item to pull off a convincing charade, adding it to his collection along with the wide brimmed hat that floated nearby.

“Come Hafsa we have a lengthy walk ahead of us.”

Stopping briefly to gather the fabric shears that had saved his life, Khayyam began the journey back toward the shuttlecraft that had delivered the participants to the planet after the catastrophic electrical blackout aboard the floating lobby the served as the Tournament Headquarters. Along the way the Arab warrior took to looking after the finer details the disguise, altering the Shaisma garment, fashioning it after the Beast Master’s apparel. Hair color, style, and the removal of facial hair was all accomplished via cantrips before he made his final approach.

“Where’s the other?”The shuttle pilot bellowed over the increasing decibels supplied by the warming thrusters.
“I’m afraid Khayyam won’t be making this trip.” The deceptive man replied, holding the wide brimmed hat in place against the gusting turbulent as he boarded.
“Are you sure?”
“Tonight, our departed traveling companion will be spending his time getting to know the other denizens of the Kyrvktz’s Dead Swamp. Any news of the Station?”The warrior added, changing the subject to glean information.

The unfortunate electrical fiasco that had preceded their departure would serve his current rouse well. The ship-wide surge had fried the circuitry of many of the electrical devices the served the event including video monitors and satellite feed. By the time things were patched together getting images up and running the once again the finalists would likely be well into their matchup. By that time, his opponent would already be faced with the realization they weren’t engaging the Beast Master at all. A satisfied smile crossed his face as he strapped in preparing for takeoff. It wasn’t the first time he had impersonated somebody after all; and it likely wouldn’t be his last.