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Serenely stepping forward, his arms crossed over his chest, Jackie Chun made his way to the registration table, smiling slightly as he leaned forward.

"I would like to participate in this tournament."

OOC: Profile approved, in character post pending.

"'Bout fuggin' time," Daemon muttered as he made his way past registration and into the the lobby proper. He had been in line for a while and was about to call his participation off entirely when some sort of commotion further up the line scared a good chunk of the fighters away. Whatever it was, Daemon found himself glad he had missed it as he quickly progressed to the desk from then on. He dusted off his three-toned suit as he he headed up the stairs, his black combat boots thudding on each step. With his eyes down inspecting his work as he cleared the landing the Lieutenant didn't even notice the other fighters until the IFF program he'd set up on his glasses gave him two indicators. Green and Red. He paused in both step and action to act like he was closely examining a blemish on his trench coat that was nowhere to be found. 'One allied entity from my neck of the woods and an enemy from therein as well,' he thought to himself as his short charade bought him time for some introspection. 'It really won't matter who we fight for elsewhere in this tournament,' his train of thought continued, 'but it'll still feel weird fighting a comrade.' Resigning himself to the eventuality of battle with a fellow Technocrat, Daemon took on a guise of satisfaction as he looked up from the errant fault of his coat and looked first to the red arrow.

His glasses led his view to a silver haired abomination he could easily recognize as a Sliver without the input from his spectacles. The monstrosities were a part of the darker legacy of Technocracy that he had accepted as his burden as well when he joined their ranks. They'd created them long ago for use as biological weapons, but the Sliver had different plans. His brethren had been trying to annihilate the creatures for millenia now and Daemon was hoping he'd get to aid in that cause. Now wasn't the time for such things though. He quickly swept his view across the draconic being and the cloaked man by the Sliver to the man in the coveralls his glasses had indicated. The fellow was sitting at a bar in a room immediately off the lobby through slightly decorative arch. Through quick connection between the glasses and his mind via the Blur, his synapses and sentience melding directly with the electrons and processes of the device through invisible strands of ether, Daemon made an inquiry into the man's identity as he made his way towards the bar. "Whiskey sounds awesome about now," the heavily muscled hacker mused aloud as he went.

As he reached the bar his search of Technocrat personnel files returned an interesting result. The file showed him nothing more about the man than a photo of him looking very disgruntled, his name, and a symbol that more than explained the lack of in formation. The overly-stylized black serpent linking itself into a emblem every military 'Crat recognized with ease. The jagged, black, auto-cannibalistic reptile of the Technocracy's covert ops. "Ouroboros," Lt. Reakaris sighed as he sat down next to Ichi-gou and knocked on the bar's lacquered surface. "One-twenty bourbon. Neat," he said to the bartender as he leaned on the bar, the inlaid gold gear on the back of his trench gleaming in the dim light, and waited for his drink.

OOC: Profile accepted, in character post pending.

OOC: Approved.

Steady... Steady... The edge of a blade placed against the five o'clock shadow of Katana's face. This is it...

This was the morning ritual. Drink. Wake up. Drink more. Realize you're alone in the wilderness, maybe wash clothes. Drink more. Take a shower/bath in any running water nearby. Attempt to shave. So far he'd made it to the seventh step, the last of his morning ritual. He was already buzzed. "Shiiitt... Here I gooooo~" He said, and at that exact moment katana was thrust into a completely alternate reality, he was sitting in some fancy-schmancy, well pruned garden. He was so shocked at the sudden change that he sliced a nice slit along his chin and promptly screamed, slapping his hand against the seering pain. "WH- WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?! A man takes a shower and shaves and the world ends?!" He searched around for his clothes, he found his weapons, just not his clothes. From there Katana would undergo a covert mission to find all his clothing, wondering how he got here all the while, which promptly took him to a flashback:

There he sat on lavish furniture exquisite tapestry adorned the room, he seemed so out of place, suddenly Akujata spoke to him:
"Katana, you have mail."
"I hate mail."
"It could be money"
"Money is useless, the only two things important in this world is beautiful women, good booze, and bein' a man!"
"Those are three things, Katana, and i've taken the liberty of looking over this invitation. It's some sort of grand tournament, and YOU have been hand-selected to j-"
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWNNN"
"Katana!"
"Will they have booze?"
"They'll most likely have some sort of refreshm-"
"Women?"
"They're is a possibility there are some female contes-"
"I'm in."
"I'll mail them your acceptance letter..."

Oh... I guess this is the grand tournament.. He said finding his hakamas, and haori. He quickly slipped the clothing on before the matches were broadcasted. Guess that's the place.. He said as he entered the lobby, soon reaching the desk to hold his spot. He assured himself all the way this tournament would have some sort of complimentary brothel to the contestants, he drooled at the thought of it Breathe girl, just breathe..

He made his way to one of the rooms, until he received word of the matches.

Xaul pushed through the crowds, reeling and stumbling as if drunk. He smelled heavily of whiskey, and smiled and laughed at everything. In reality, he was simply distracting people from the fact that he was picking their pockets. Quickly dropping his act, he turned his registration papers in to the desk. Smiling and thanking the man, he rushed to a room, where he set about hiding his gains and washing off the whiskey.

Kronos has decided to drop out. He lost the morale for this.

The Grand Tournament

As men yelled, skeletons observed, beasts dumped liquids of sorts onto wooden desk tops, and everyone generally went about there business a considerably smaller figure had appeared in the cue, adorned in the traditional red robes and pointed hat of his trade. Windsor Arcanum, spell caster to the Dark Church of Arkanus and gunslinger of the Technocracy stood with head tilted and perfectly rounded orange frames blazing in the shadows beneath his widened brim. The wizard appeared completely unaffected by the scene around him and more than anything, appeared to be day dreaming. His mind wandered idly within the confines of his head will giants and monsters towered around and near him. Of all the characters brought in, he seemed least able on appearance alone, a common thought unluckily uttered by one unfortunate fool at a great distance away.

"Eay! Look'it the squirt in red o'er there next to Jelicus!"

Grunts...

Despite his borderline comatose pose, the young spell caster was well aware of the goings on around him, including the presence of familiar bodies like Ichi-gou, Daemon Reakaris, and even the sliver, Vega. The taunts of nearby fighters who were lucky enough to get a call to such a grand gathering of highly trained warriors in their trade were easy enough to catch. After all, it was something that came only about as natural as breathing around Windsor. The taunters words slipped from his ears as he heard the mans nearby acquaintances join in on the laugh. Such was life, and such was the spell casters response. One of empty staring into the space just inches above his head while the line moved slowly, only a step or two forward at a time.

"Oi, tiny! I tink yur in mai place!" a voice bellowed out from behind him suddenly.

It was the alien giant identified by the bar-men as Jelicus. Windsor turned to face the monster adorned in heavy armors set to compliment the heavy battle ax in his hand. The creatures face was covered in matted brown fur while two large tusks stuck out from his bottom jaw and two beady black eyes stared down. A typical brute if ever there was one.

"Yea, thas rite, squat! Yur in my place!!" the creature spoke again, this time attempting to force his way past the cloaked man with the brunt of his shoulder. It was only when he leaned forward to muscle Windsor aside, that he found the spell caster unmovable, as though he too were a giant in front of this alien figure. The others sitting away from the scene were laughing heartily as they watched this stranger push forward, expecting the Crimson Bishop to fall sideways from the brutes strength, only to find their laughter staved when nothing of the sort happened. The brute backed to where he had originally been standing, a look of confusion quickly crossing his features as Windsor simply stood there, his head still cocked to the side and orange gaze fixed to the air above.

"I'm sorry," the shorter mage started, "did you say something?"

The mans voice reflected the same airy thoughts that had been swirling about his mind while the trio that sat farther away broke into greater laughter at the strangers impudence before their greater friend, Jerilcus. The hairy alien only grew more agitated and again roared out his own self-proclaimed triumphs.

"I sayz, yur in my way now MOVE!"

Again the beast tried to push forward, and again the spell caster still stood their as if nothing were happening around him.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I still don't know what you are trying to ask me."

By now, the beastly creature had had enough of this embarrassing scene of being trumped by such a considerably smaller and obviously weaker opponent that he raised an arm wielding the mighty ax, as if to cleave the wizard in two. No sooner had the weapon been lifted, did a blade of otherworldly metals appear from the air beside him to pierce the mortal weapon through the center of it's head, shattering wood and metal alike in a torrent of magical power. Now words or motions had been observed coming from the spell caster, nor had even the faintest detection of rising strength, though all who were watching knew where the ghastly blade of destruction had come from. The three men and their unfortunate ally fell silent.

"I'll crush yew fer dat, yew toad!" the monstrosity bellowed, heartbroken at the sudden loss of his weapon and now enraged by the taunting tones of the man before him, oblivious of his next action to try and strike the Crimson Bishop across his face. As the fist was reeled back, Windsor spoke again.

"Toad? No sir, I'm more partial to frogs really."

Stoicism and complacency were what described the robed mans demeanor at this moment before a cloud of thick green smoke suddenly billowed up beneath the fur-laden alien, blanketing him in a stench liken to that of a rancid swamp. No swinging fist came from the fog. Not even a startled cry. Only the deep croaks of a new creature which was revealed after the methane fog cleared.

"See? Frogs are so much cuter than ugly ol' toads. I think they jump higher too," Windsor was lost in his thoughts again while the small brown figure of a frog looked over itself with nothing but the most startled of expressions and actions and furious croaking 'ribbits' of defiance to what had happened to it's body. The three men who had been watching nearby had gone mute, with mouths agape and eyes wide.

"Next please!" another voice rang out to the robed figure, signaling that it was finally his turn to sign up for this Grand Tournament.

"Oh! Looks like that's me. Hey guys!" Windsor called out to the trio that had instigated this entire plot. "You're friend could use a little looking after over here! With all of this big guys lurking around, I don't think anyone would want to see him stepped on by accident."

And with that, he turned back to the desk to fill out his required information. Behind him, the three men who had only recently started moving with looks of bewilderment fused into their features now picked up their felled frog friend, one in particular trying his hardest not to cry and failing miserably at it. They never saw it coming and neither had the alien, which immediately brought into question, and was verbally clarified by the sobbing man, "What if he did something to us too!? I don't want to be a frog!!"

"Thank you, Bishop Windsor Arcanum. Please relax and make yourself comfortable while waiting for your contest to begin." the receptionist chimed happily after placing the spell casters parchment away in a safe place.

"Thank you very much. I think I might do just that."

Discipline held the Polaroid in front of his visor, taking one last long look at his target's face before touching the flame from the zippo to it's edge. Once it was burning brightly he let it flutter to the floor, where the ashes sat blackly against the marble. His employer had told him how to access the Tournament beacon in return for his services, and Discipline always honored his contracts. Adjusting his backpack strap to make sure it didn't catch on the hilt of the powersword, he hefted a metal briefcase in each hand and walked toward the queue. There seemed to already be quite a cast of characters waiting in line, and he smiled to himself. Such arrogance they radiated, and yet they had to register like everyone else. Discipline assumed that the registration area was a zone of nonagression, and he turned off his inertial barrier and power assists accordingly. It wouldn't do to make a fuss.

((Bio: http://www.animeleague.net/forums/viewt ... 1#p1396081



I may or may not edit this with an IC post. Unless one is necessary, then I'll be sure to))

OOC: Profile Approved, in character post pending.

The council chose him solely based on one rule: Prove not name nor strength, but heritage. Let those around you know where it is you derive from. This rule is applied once to every bagi and that is at the turning of 21. Reminiscences' departure was the same day as his birthday and they had only given him one thing. A portal in which was the means of transportation. Sapphire spheres shot upwards as to mighty fists came to beat upon an armored chest. This was his acceptance.

Now Reminiscence stood in unkown territory between to grandeur gladiators. The sight immediately caused the bagi to arch his back, chin up high, and release a devilish battle cry. His strides were hard and heavy; every step clanging as metal swept through and overpowered the marble tiles. His face wrinkled as it seemed to display him as steaming, but in fact, Reminiscence was quite calm and excited for the games to begin. Then again, it seemed like things would as audible fighting words were gestured, but no attention played to them at that time.

Those sapphire spheres were bored in on the desk for enrollment. When it came time to actually feel the papers out he just stood there. The bagi's are fighters. They never claimed to be scholars. It was an animalistic or characteristic behaviour that lead Reminiscence to draw his fists over the paper and using the arched blade hooked to his gauntlets, sliced the paper in an 'x' formation. This was his marking. This was his enrollment.

Reminiscence turned an in excitement released another battle cry. Both gauntleted fists clang against his protected chest once producing an audible clang loud enough to echo through the room as his back arched. It was at the arch that he came to stand on the tips of his toes and allow a shiver to fall over the body and be shaken off. The shake removed the shiver, a sliver of the Karons spirit intoxicating influence to push Reminiscence to do battle here and now repressed by an explosion of energy that expanded in 7 feet around him as he howled.

Skallagrim watched with mild amusement as the blood splatter pattern of the man landed on those who had not bothered to move away from the violent display from the fit youth. Observe the patterns, understand the differences, and examine the fighters that continued to appear. Most seemed to be awash in technologies that while from variety of holons were remarkably similar. A shift in the whorls of energy that emanated from the eye sockets, the wisps of energy seemed thicker, only to swirl around the head in a miasmic display as an ethereal mist.

There were all manner of warriors, some carrying curved blades, others massive weapons of obvious destructive potential, and others appeared. Skallagrim observed the drunken spectacle that pushed and shoved its way through the crowd, the energies flared and incandesced, the amethyst glow radiated brightly, and the being was…an elf? Note and observe. Skallagrim watched with interest as the creature’s seemingly drunken state transform once it signed the paper at the front table.

The a few more beings awash in the patterns of technology, in fact one seems to be composed of metallic parts, this one interested Skallagrim as it was not the typical thrum of technology it was seemingly different than the others that had tromped through. Study and examine. As Skallagrim eased to the side so the large being wouldn’t obstruct his view was easily,

One being entered with oranges glasses that held the attention of Skallagrim for a moment as he stared at the orange glasses that sat upon the face. Cocking his head to the side, the Xindhi watcher was intrigued by them. The being was festooned in the garb of a wizard, yet seemed to carry the aura of technology, truly an interesting creature to be sure. Observe and note, the Dreaming Queen would enjoy the new sensations of these creatures that had lain hidden among the myriad of holons.

Others entered, beings of weapons and power, some in black armor that seemed ominous and frightful, others in less menacing grab yet filling the holon with aspects of their persona and power. To be sure each and everyone of them was a warrior of repute, their skills seen in their confidence and in some cases arrogance

Discipline stepped into line behind the robed psyker, making sure to give him a wide birth. Those with 'fantastic' abilities bothered him - they were much harder to control and predict than other, more mundane opponents. He found himself double checking the charge on his nerve rod. There seemed to be a very wide spectrum of people here, ranging from the stereotypical wizard to entities beyond his own level of tech. It was exciting, thinking how he could disable each one and subsume thier egos.

Eyes. Discipline felt eyes on him, and casually did a scan of the crowd in responce. Ah, there the watcher was. Another fantasy case, complete with unnatural eyes and strange energies. He sighed and studied this new freak of nature, wondering what he could do. Placing his bags and cases on the floor, he reached up and pressed the depressions on each side of the faceplate, popping it out with a hiss to reveal his facial features. A smile graced his lips, even though the eyes that gazed at the watcher remained empty.

Vega's attention had been drawn by the fuss in the line as some upitty line cutter had found himself on the wrong end of a somewhat familiar looking artificial asshole. Ichi-gou. The one that had joined with the red eyed general on Media to knock the everliving crap out of the idiot Kane Bryant and the hobo Jay. Vega himself hadn't been there, but despite his own eccentricities, arrogance, and utter disdain for anything resembling compassion, caring, or duty, he did like to keep track of the goings on of those who were ostensibly on his side in things. Really though, did the Iron Handed monster have any side but his own, when it came down to basics?

No, no he didn't.

Regardless he was passingly familiar with the Technocrat, and indeed he was similarly familiar with a second Technocrat in line, one red robed midget with an ugly pointed hat. Windsor Arcanum. When you'd been around as long as Vega had, you tended to pick up the names of individuals who caused stirs, and the mage was one of them. Again, the sliver had yet to face the being personally, but reputation moves swiftly in the multiverse.

Thus far he hadn't recognised anyone else, but he hadn't really expected to see that many people he did. After all, in a place as vast as the multiverse there were going to be a damn lot of folks he didn't know. For instance the monolithic scaly that was walking up to him now. Vibrant yellow color bleeding into the blackness, Vega's eyes looked up to the great dragon-like thing's proud, noble face. Shadow and gold swirled within those eyes like mixing liquids.

"Something we can do for you tiny?"

Qual was quietly floating in line, with an absolute minimum of unnecessary movement that only a statue could hold a candle to, and even then, a statue couldn't stabilize the atoms in it's brilliant orange robe down to perfect motionlessness. In the sea of commotion that was the Tournament, he was truly a bastion of cold mechanical calm.

Next!

Yelled a man robed in purple, who was obviously the registar. A brutish man dressed in Ornate, and obsolete, Crimson armor stepped up the table, and with an embarrassing failing of basic writing skill, simply slashed the paper he was supposed to be signing. Qual sighed, or as close as a machine can get to a sigh, Humans were just so unintelligent sometimes. For example, a man like this had attacked Qual once, thinking he could defeat the great AI of Oglescate cluster, and also had roared just like this animalistic man was now doing, only to be cubed into 1cm chunks by Qual's Field Modifier. The man gave another roar, and suddenly a field of energy burst from him, knocking the Atoms in the weak stability Field out of balance. Qual was annoyed, and quietly engraved the words "Kick Me" into the mans backplate with a low-power cutting force.

Next!

Yelled the man again, signifying that this was Qual's turn to come up. He moved in a way that only he could, gliding through the air motionlessly, giving no indication that he was even alive. The man just looked at him, expecting a response of some kind. Qual nodded in a way, and "created" his papers from the air and a bit of desk varnish, leaving a dull patch of wood underneath them. He nodded again, and floated off over to the bar, where he would try and mingle with the plethora of aliens here.

My name is Ethan Harte. I am a fighter who fears nothing. I give myself very few advantages during a fight. No gloves or shoes. The only weapon I use is a perfect sword called the Chainblade. I signed my name at the registration desk and I await a match. (meditates in a corner)

Jack saw no reason to approach the vistor’s desk. If he had been invited to this place without prior knowledge of this competition, it was more than likely the supervisors of the Grand Tournament already knew of him, and he expected that these supervisors had set up sensors in order to keep track of the more unruly competitors. In that case, it was likely that they knew he had arrived. However, Jack was not planning on creating discord or malcontent just yet. The combatant lineup just behind the registrar was beyond his suppositions, and to place himself among the throng would give them a heads up that he would rather not disclose. He kept to the outer edges of the vast room; waiting was of no inconvenience. It gave him ample opportunity to analyze his opponents.

With a small frown, he rested his shoulder-blades along a towering pillar and crossed his arms. The tips of his gloved fingers brushed each of the semi-automatic's grips, just in case: it would not do for him to be caught off guard, not even on the off-chance that anyone would speak to him. And in that case, it would depend on them on whether or not he began a fight.

This place has the potential to provide me with plenty of fun. (practices martial arts moves in a corner)