RolePlayGateway™

A potential combatant arrived at the highly decorated locale spinning in place, twenty feet above the ground. Sirocco slowed his clockwise rotational movement, but remained above the marble pathway, and took a cursory glance over the initial area he had been warped too. Unbelievable sights greeted his eyes with arms wide open. Lush, perfect grass that appeared to have been cut with scissors to a precise length that was neither too long nor too short. An excellently crafted marble pathway which shined like ice, and reflected images like a mirror. Gargantuan statues that appeared to be alive, and much, much more that Sirocco could barely digest visually.

Now eager to see what awaited inside, Sirocco gently lowered himself, but did not dare ruin the perfect marble pathway that was laid out for him. He pushed himself forward by creating a light breeze that swept just above the lush grass, tickling their tips. Within a minute, he floated into the building, and decided that it was appropriate to set foot on the grand marble floor and the vibrant red carpet which clothed it. His shoes hit the carpet with a hiss; the nearly microscopic holes that had been painstakingly punctured into the material which composed his shoes allowed for Sirocco to freely flow air in and out, which gave him the benefit of being able to fly much more easily while still earning the benefits of not having to walk on bare feet.

Upon entering the room, Sirocco's attention was grabbed by a huge marble cube which sat diligently and silently in the exact center of the room. He also noticed that text had been elegantly etched into the marble cube. After thirty seconds, Sirocco finished reading the message, and nodded, granting himself more confidence which was dearly needed at this point.

Now with a more casual aura emanating from within, Sirocco walked over to the back desk, which was perhaps one of the few pieces of furniture in the lobby that wasn't made of marble, and picked up a profile sheet, and a pen.

(OOC: Profile was filled out in RPGChat, and Remæus talked with me on AIM. I'm just reposting my IC portion here.)

"Oh, this is just ridiculous. See? This is why I hate being involved in this shit. I feel like I'm in one of those retarded cartoons they make on Media."

The marble facade loomed ahead, a red carpet spilling out from its spacious entryway like an idiot's lolling tongue. The two stood at the foot of the carpet, boots resting on the grass-walled stone pathway that wound into the hazy infinity behind them. The grass, too, extended across the unlimited vista, terminating at a horizon where the ground and the sky became entirely indistinguishable. The Corporation would classify this area as "Unbound Space"-- a universe broken off from the Multiverse proper through the virtues of its twisted spatial behavior.

"I like it! It feels...important!"

"Yeah, well you would. And no offense Pious, but I don't exactly buy into your sense of aesthetics."

They stepped forward and continued their approach towards the central building, the carpet now muting their footfalls against the marble. The shorter and clearly younger of the two, the one the other referred to as Pious, looked around at the uncanny dimensions with wonder flushing across his face. He was pale, with equally pale hair, and Pious seemed to compensate with the majority of his wardrobe. He wore a button down shirt, colored light orange with explosions of red and green across it, and fitted blue jeans. His boots were the only piece of military equipment he wore. He also carried two pieces of luggage with him: a backpack and a duffle bag slung across his right shoulder.

Pious kept a brisk pace, his enthusiasm pushing him ahead of his mentor. “You should hurry up! The line’s probably huge by now,” he said.

The man behind him reluctantly picked up his pace as well. He couldn’t have been more different from Pious. He was tall, brown haired and dressed in military attire. He wore a knee length formal duster over a black and gray vest and a white shirt. The only notable spashes of color about his figure were the orange tie around his neck, and his vivid green right eye. The left was concealed by a smooth metal patch strapped to his face. The look on this man’s-- Asimov Turscadine’s—face made one thing abundantly clear: he did not want to be here.

“Don’t worry about it,” Asimov said. “Tidus sent Trish ahead of us, to save our spot in line. Hell, maybe she even got all the paperwork done for us already. That is what we have her for.” He still hung a little behind Pious, who turned to walk backwards as he spoke with the General.

“Is that the only reason?” Pious asked. “You could have sent me out to do that.” The General sighed.

“Well…it’s also because she has some training that you don’t really have, unfortunately. From what our intel brought back on this region, it’s going to be nigh impossible to retrieve resources from outside the barrier. That means we need someone who can repair my equipment and…” he trailed off a bit.

“And what?”

“Medical aid. Regen’s shot straight to hell in this space. Whoever’s running it doesn’t want people like us mucking up their games by regrowing arms and everything.” Pious whistled.

“Wow, there are people in the Multiverse that posses that kind of power?” Asimov nodded.

“Unfortunately. And that’s why I have you here,” he said. “You need to make sure that Trish doesn’t get out of line if I’m incapacitated.”

“…Out…of line?” Pious grimaced, and Asimov retuned the sentiment.

“I don’t trust that scaly bitch. Not even the slightest. I want you on her like white on rice, and don’t you dare let her touch our gear unless it needs fixing.” Pious looked shocked.

“That’s a little…bigoted, don’t you think?” he posed.

“It’s not about race. It’s about the Corporation validating people who are psychologically prone to being exceedingly unprofessional and putting them in positions of military responsibility instead of forcing them through the therapy that they need. And they do need it, Pious. So badly.”

Asimov took his first step onto the stairs leading up to the main hall. Already he could hear the commotion of several dozen individuals jostling for position and ego. He also heard one very familiar voice shouting obscenities, and then probably hurting something. At least that brought a smile to his face.

“Well, here goes nothing,” he said, and the two Technocrats ascending into the tournament hall.

The Ken'tan arched a single brow. "Where the-" his lips muttered softly. Golden hues followed the stair case up to its platform. He let out a light sigh before going into motion to climb the steps. "Only one way to find out." The once lone warrior ascended the stairs taking glances at the looming statues that lined the path. Their stone cold stares seemed to peer down at him as he continued upward.

Reaching the platform Leeo entered the grand building where he was greeted by a large marble block.

"Grand Tournament." Tandory read it to himself.

"-all parties are permitted to leave at any time through the portal at the front of the courtyard," as he read that portion he turned back to the entrance, looking out to the courtyard and the portal that were just barely visible from the high vantage point.

The Ken'tan pondered for a moment before shrugging, and turning back around and proceeding to the registration desk.

After filling out the required paper work Leeo found himself standing against a far wall sporting the cocky boyish grin he was so known for back in his world. With a quick head jerk he flipped the long crimson locks that were cascading down over his face from out of his eyes. The warrior sent a sun colored gaze out to search the gathering crowd of other competitors. "Scrub club," he thought arrogantly causing the smirk to tug even more so at his lips.

With the acceptance of his application into the tournament, Baptista was thrust immediately into the GT Realm without so much as a warning.

He appeared, feet having touched down onto a white and spectacularly fashioned marble walkway. "Woh-hoh," he said aloud, "Isn't this just nice and fancy...," his voice trailed off as he gazed out into the distance. A calming silence being acknowledged as he found himself alone on the somewhat long and spiraling path. He kept his normal appearance, there was no need to show any hint of his ability or power to the common-folk, hell he might not even show some of his opponents his true power, what need would there be if they could be easily dispatched without it? But all this left his mind as he further viewed his surroundings, taking in the tranquil atmosphere through his sight and hearing, letting his conscious absorb this newly experienced area. The grass looked well-kept. It's hue of an almost sparkling emerald, the sun's rays only working to further the rich color. "Heh," he scoffed, his adoptive parents would certainly be jealous of this lawn, and that is not something that could often be said of them. What he truly admired was the quaint elegance of all the marble, the path, the sculptures, and the buildings all being made of the same substance. He was accustom to a comfortable and rich lifestyle, but all of this certainly redefined his opinion on what was what in life.

Having taken the appropriate amount of time to take in the grandeur appearance of his surroundings, he tucked his hands within the pockets of his pants, yawning lazily as he cracked his neck off to the side, the crack signaling his feet to begin their walk up the winding path and their climb up the resplendent marble steps. Everything was so appealing to the eye, his usually nonchalant persona was more attune than it had been in quite some time, and he took pleasure in this revival of his spirits. He stopped as he reached the steps, looking up with awe at the magnificent statues, their poses sending inspiration deep within the confines of his heart, invigorating and uplifting his expression to an even more devious sneer as he began his trek into the registration hall.

The atmosphere was different as he stood within the threshold of the hall, it was as awe inspiring as the exterior, but in a completely different way. Stone replaced marble for the marvelously constructed stairways, stretching onward and upward to provide access to the many floors of the building. He noticed a multitude of others in the hall, these people had to be the other fighters, all of them containing various differences that made them easily definable from everyone else. He merely chuckled, the chuckle escalating into laughter, the pitch of it high enough to gather the attention of the crowd. "Hahaha...ahaha...," he looked up from his distracting laughter, giving everyone a wide-eyed stare with his deep brown eyes, their depth so abysmal that one could become lost if looking too intently.

This quite obstructive noise would have startled some, and brought attention to him as he stood beneath the sky and the archway of the hall at the same time, lowering his shoulders to better define his small yet sturdy figure. With a tilt of his head, exemplifying the arrogance he flowed with, he spoke to them all, "Why hello there everyone, I guess you're the ones who will be looking up at my handsome face while I claim victory from each and every one of you," he made it a point to thrust his finger across each of them as he spoke, this maybe being too much of a provocation, but he did not seem to care much about it. If anything, his innocent and gentle appearance, donning his neat and fitted school uniform, would cause a sense of humility towards him, uneducated impressions that would later lead to each and every one of their downfalls. With a cheerful hop, he swiftly covered the distance that lay between the doorway and the desk, leaning nonchalantly and quite inappropriately upon the surface of the desk, completing his registration quickly, scribbling through all the needed fields with his messy yet sleek handwriting.

Now was his time, his time to define himself for the world, to show the masses that he could invoke a greater power even if it's measured strength was outmatched by some. He would use his abilities to the best, and transcend any limits that may be tried upon him. As his hand floated to his hair, ruffling it to further emphasize the messy style, he yawned widely, baring the sound outwards along with his hopes of prevailing in this honorable and recognized tourney.

"Yeah, didn't think so."

Vega grinned up into the massive being's face, unrelenting in the spotlight of the draconic creature's silent glare. With an almost companionable slap of his metallic hand against the larger being's upper arm, the sliver slipped past and left the assuming thing behind.

The room was becoming crowded, that was easy to see. Of course this only served to heighten Vega's hunger and desire for the anarchaic riot that was combat. The hallmarks of the Technocracy seemed in abundance, between recognizable figures such as Ichi-Gou and Windsor Arcanum to even By-God-Asimov-Fucking-Turscadine himself. Idly, he wondered what would happen if he tore the General's red eye from his skull and devoured it.

Maybe it would even improve the man's looks a bit.

The man leaned on a wall in the lobby. Watching the other tournament entrants walk past him, he'd lay his head on the wall behind him. The white silky mass of hair cushioning his head as he did. His blood red eyes illuminate a msall area in front of him, adding an eerie effect to the place, as the lobby was already dimly lighted. Having his hands in his pocket, he had one leg resting up against the wall. His jacket was a black one, not too big, with chains hanging from the pockets. A white shirt underneath it accented it's black and silver, resting above a black long pair of jeans. The combat boots he wore was strapped above the jeans, providing him with maximum mobility. The Katana rested on his left side, as the scimitar was oppositely positioned. The desert eagles lay rested to holsters inside his jacket, concealed to the naked eye. He watched a certain door that everyone seemed to have their attention directed to. Noting it's presence, he peered into it's way, searching for a sign of anything vaguely familiar. He was certain to himself that this as the door he'd needed to walk into at the time necessary. he beagn to walk toward it.....

OOC: Approved.

A markedly brief, quizzical evaluation of the slab on which the seminal invitation is hewn, and Spencer furtively approaches the registration desk. He fills it out, unsure as to whether his scrawling is sufficient, and then immediately retreats up the stairs to one of the numerous chambers occupied by those who will, like he, be participating in these proceedings. As he lightly ascends the upper-balcony, questions assail his mind: How did I get here? What kind’a tournament is this? How do these people know me? Will I win one of the ribbons, like in primary school, places one-thru-eleven?

Unaware that this is a victory or death-style gathering of wills, where not every precious snowflake is a winner, Spencer secures a room of his own, his naive mind whirling with excitement at how much fun the whole affair may end up being.

Name: Dyanz Ekizame
Age: 368
Eye Color: Blue
Hair: Crimson
Hair Type: Down to about his knee
Weight: 140 lbs
Height: 6'2"
Race: DemonicHuman (?)

Biography: Dyanz is the king of the Ekizame empire, location: unknown. He carries a long katana in it's sheath at his left side. He carries somewhat DJ headphones on his ears, the strap touching against the back of his skull. His slim body maneuvers about quickly, and his sword skills are almost unmatched. But oddly about him, he seems to have an extraordinary aura about him. Odd for a king..
He also doesn't wear the traditional 'emblem and armour' crap as that would slow him down tremendously.

Moves/Attacks:
Phasion: Allows Dyanz to appear, and reappear to areas. Somewhat like teleportation, but a bit more limitations.
Kokoro: His katana. Uses it for fighting of course.
Firogla: Brings a large blue flame to the foe. Surrounds the opponent almost completely.
Punch/Kick: Classic Punches and Kicks.
Bankai:: Not exactly like on Bleach, but still a bankai of Kokoro. Kokoro turns into a giant 12 ft blade, and has the ability to bring forth clay golems. It has can disappear into the ground, as he stabs it in, and bring forth spires around the foe, and they close in, surrounding the foe in an enclosed earthern cage. The blade then appears from the sky, but this time, about 10 times larger, and stabs into the spire, obliterating anything inside.


Demon Dyanz:
The demon form releases after becoming extremely angry, or as a last resort. The form may also jump in, taking over Dyanz's soul. It all started when Dyanz was only about 10 years old. His parents died by the hands of Senritsu and her army. Dyanz became angry, and watned to avenge them, a dark soul entering his body. The demonic form is faster, stronger, and has even better sword skills and attacks.
Bankai:: A new form, this time in the form of a snake. It squirms around like a snake o_o It also has the ability to call upon a gigantic snake, in the place of the blade, until the snake disappears. The third attack it has, is to open at the tip, and fire a poisoned flare shot at the enemy.

((This is from like a year ago, so it may be updated. also lol his parents sucked at fighting ))

"Oh screw this place, too damn boring already."

The soulless miscreant known as Vega glared about the room, obviously displeased by the state of things and the general amount of time he'd been waiting here without having the opportunity to disembowel or disfigure anyone, let alone devour anyone or anything. With a final growl and a dismissive wave, the monster vanished, a ripple of twisted space the only display as he was gone from the GT universe for good.


-------

Sturdily constructed boots slapped against the floor, a steady stacatto rapidly approaching General Turscadine and his companion, only to slow as they got closer to the pair.

"General?"

The new arrival slowed to a walk, matching his pace to those of the others. In appearance he much more closely resembled Turscadine himself, albeit if only because the two wore military dress of some type. Dark green and black fatigues covered his athletic frame, many pocketed shirt and trousers with only one identifying mark: the gear symbol known as the Solidus to the technocracy. Black combat boots and an unmarked black beret finished the clothing, although it was far from the man's only identifying characteristics. A sleek black pistol was strapped to his right thigh, and at the small of his back rested a canvas style pack. Just over the pack a short blade rested in its psychotronically locked sheath. Black leather gloves fit snugly over his hands.

Apparently Major Knight had decided to come in uniform today.

Pulling up to the General's left side, Bastion turned hi strange blue-gray eyes to the higher ranking officer, and briefly wondered if saluting would be appropriate given the situation and the location. He decided it would be better to follow theo ther's lead: if the General stopped and tuend to him, he'd throw up a smart, quick one. If not, then oh well, not like Bastion was a stickler for that sort of silliness himself.

"I've been asked to accompany you, General. Someone in the group thinks that it bears watching you, as well as evaluating the others present. Someone would prefer it if you came back in one piece, sir."

Bastion couldn't help but smile, his rugged feature's crinkling a bit as he thought about the General's reaction to that sort of nosy micromanaging.

The competitors crowded around the entryway, some eager to begin the fighting and others eager to convince themselves of the need to stay. Predictions, assessments and intentions flew about the room, both subtly and blatantly. Through words spoken and unspoken, powers flowing outwards and hidden inwards, and assumed intentions gleaned from movement and appearance, the room was filled with more than simply beings; it was populated by the egos of the fighters.

None of the egos were likely to predict the nature of the late-coming opponent who slowly strode through up the steps and through the doorway, though. Its dirty-red mane was both magnificent and disturbingly large; it was a massive feline - which was secretly no feline at all - that gently stepped its padded feet into the massive stone hall. The yellowish fur on the creature was pristine, and nearly shone from being so clean. It was an impressive specimen, larger than the average lion and appearing twice as fierce. It growled, and the noise echoed loudly through the building, perhaps catching the attention of some of the more easily interrupted individuals but likely not perturbing anyone. It drowned out the light sound of the animal's clicking claws. The creature came into life upon one of many variations of Earth, which any being with a comprehensive knowledge of the planet's animals could recognize. However, its insides were a mingling of this natural earthen creature and an incredibly powerful cosmic being that left its assumed owner no name. The lion was forced to refer to it as the Supreme Spirit, which governed all that was the animal's being - including its true form, as a Homo sapien.

A small frog was hopping out of the building, and it seemed to croaking as though it was annoyed. The lion pawed the amphibious thing, shooting it back across the floor in an erratic display of its slimy wetness. It careened over to the bar, a place that the lion promptly ignored.

Onatah's intentions and personality were hidden well by the exotic and enigmatic figure. As he paced his way to the marble block that held the etched words and ladder tapestry, he was relatively sure, or hopeful, that he enticed no specific interest, despite being an animal as opposed to the majority of humanoids in the hall. The lion first scanned the drapery, then raised its forepaws onto the top of the block to lift itself and read the imprinted writing. With a snort of understanding, the creature strode to the table against the back wall.

At this point, realizing that his feline grace would no longer serve him, the Native switched into a new creature. Applying a small amount of the Supreme Spirit's energy to his being, Onatah moulded his body almost instantly into that of a small chimpanzee, which leaped onto the counter. It scratched its head in mock befuddlement before scrawling its information down.

A few seconds later, the cute little creature grinned and clapped as happily as any chimp could. Satisfied, it decided to forgo any sort of interaction with its possible future contestants by performing a back-flip off of the desk while quickly shifting itself into a third animal, a beautiful hawk. A combination of wing-beats lifted the bird to a suitable height to glide up the stairs, searching for a room.

It wasn't as though Onatah hadn't felt the power of the other competitors, of course. In fact, that was more of a reason for the Earth-12C8 Native to stay away from them, and not even reveal his true human shape - not that it particularly mattered, for they would eventually find out anyways, but the man was always wary enough to avoid what he could, and far too outwardly serious to joke around with the men, women, and creatures. He was also often afraid of being so honest that he publicized important information, whether about himself or another. It was difficult for him to lie, no matter how introverted he was acting at the time. Onatah was also a tiny bit scared and apprehensive of the entire Tournament. Perhaps he never should have joined in the first place, especially with being so late to the party.

But such was life.

“Grampa, who’s that?” A small child, tugging on his grandfather’s sleeve, pleaded with the elder. They stood in the market, basking in the heat of the local blacksmith’s shop – the aforementioned shop’s owner, hammering out some work or other, being the object of the boy’s inquiry. The older man smiled.

“My son, that man is Darion; Darion the Redblade. He’s a blacksmith… these days.”

“Grampa, he looks… he looks different.” The grandson frowned, his visage torn with childish confusion, the inability to express himself with the correct vocabulary. His grandfather chuckled, placed a hand upon his shoulder, and spoke.

“He is different, my child. He’s a warrior.”

Fate, by nature, is a fickle mistress – she begins most stories one way, and then changes their course a thousand times before they end. This tendency can produce one of two things: a broken tragedy, or a tale so epic that it rocked the foundations of history. Most people belong to the former category. This story, however, is of the latter’s ilk.

In the outlying lands of some unknown state, near the shore, once laid a peaceable, rural village – the village of Durhn. Not more than five hundred people lived in Durhn, making it exceptionally small, as well as reliably serene. The people of Durhn farmed, raised their families, and occasionally traded with the larger towns and cities that seemed so far away. Nothing ever changed, and they liked it that way.

Of all the inhabitants of Durhn, only two were truly notable: Aaron Ragnar, a blacksmith, farmer, and retired soldier, and Darion, his son. Aaron’s wife had died giving birth to Darion, and as such the man had raised his son alone. Darion was an intelligent, strong-willed child, and even at a young age helped his father with all of his labor. By the time the boy was ten years of age he was an apprentice blacksmith and an experienced farmhand.

Darion’s childhood is in no way extraordinary. He played with the other children of Durhn, often going on “adventures” throughout the farmlands, and often told his father of the fabricated tales he had partaken in once he returned home. His father always laughed, nodded, and told him he had been a “brave, brave warrior.” Darion loved his father, and obeyed him always, because Aaron had raised him to be strong, loyal, honest, and all things a man should be.

Fate, as it has been said, it fickle. She may begin a story as a peaceful, happy one, and not half way in reverse the tides. This tale is one of those instances. One year, on the first day of summer, the pirate vessel Blooded Rapscallion landed upon the shores of Durhn. The ten-score men who crewed the ship left the boat, and using the cover of night, took the village by surprise. They ransacked the town, burning, breaking, murdering, and raping, no mercy within their agendas. Only one man stood in their way: Aaron Ragnar, the simple blacksmith, fifty years of age, a freshly forged broadsword in one hand, and his old militia shield in the other.

One would think that a single man, upwards in his years, would have fallen quickly to two hundred vicious pirates. Aaron Ragnar, however, had been an expert swordsman in his younger years, and more importantly, had something worth fighting for. Darion, his son, was hidden away inside a smithing oven. The father fought valiantly, sending some thirty men to Hell before he himself fell. Darion spent the night crying, cold and alone, inside an iron box.

Darion awoke the next morning to an unearthly quiet, the normal lowing of cows, bleating of sheep, and pounding of a smith’s hammer removed from his ears. Not even the birds sang. The boy climbed from his sanctuary, covered in soot, and looked upon the carnage that had been wrought. Everyone he had grown up with – the women who fussed at him for never being clean, the boys he had wrestled and played with, all of them were dead, their corpses burnt and strewn across the village streets like bales of hay in a field. Darion didn’t cry. He couldn’t. He had cried all night, and his eyes simply would not allow him… but deep down, he had wished he could.

Aaron’s son found his father atop the forge’s roof, where he had taken his last stand. The man’s body was broken, covered in lacerations from head to boots, arrows protruding from his chest, shoulders, legs, and sides. For the longest time Darion simply stood there atop the thatch roof, staring at his father; his teacher, his mentor, his confidant, his best friend. It may have been hours. It may have been days. Whatever was the case, at some point in time Darion stooped over his father’s lifeless form, took hold of the battle-worn broadsword, and left Durhn.

From there the story is vague, and it is suspected that much of the young Darion’s adventures have been riddled with myths and fabrications, making them more legends than they are history. However, what is known is that Darion eventually found the Blooded Rapscallion, and he sent every last one of its crew to Hell – and the ship itself to the bottom of the ocean. He has many titles under his belt – Master Craftsman, Mercenary, Retired General, Dragonslayer, Anti-Mage, and even husband. To this date he will tell most people who ask that his fame is undeserved, and those titles are of a past life; but it is obvious upon seeing the man. He’s still the man he was. He’s still a hero.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

A man is made of three parts: his Honor, his Discipline, and his Word.

A flash, a simple tear in the reality of things, and the heat of the smithy was gone. No longer was it a crisp, cool night, warmed only by the glowing coals within the furnace. Sunshine, a different thing entirely, warmed the air about the soot-covered laborer -- it only took a moment for the eyes to adjust to heaven’s torch, violent in its purity, but the moment after the blacksmith made sure to scan his surroundings. At first glance he knew precisely where he was.

An enemy is not an opponent. It is an eventual battlefield casualty.

His gate was slow, the simple leather boots making hardly a sound as he paced his way across the marble path. A hammer, beaten and worn, still rested within the craftsman’s hand; yet his other hand gripped the strap of a heavy-laden leather pack, sl

“So….” Ichi-gou drawled his reply a little bit, thumbing the buttons of a digital display pad in one hand and sipping a glass of habu-sake in the other. The digital display was cycling through a series of pictures (masterfully edited, of course. They looked 100% flawless) of General Asimov’s recent ‘wedding’ with the scale-covered female who’d sat at the table across from the android and Daemon.

“To summarize…You being here with the General’s guns and these…Well, these…Damn, how to put this…?” Ichi-gou thumbed his chin, sipped the small glass in his hands, and narrowed his already narrow eyes in deep concentration. Scrolling through a few more pictures he settled on one of Trish in a scale-tight white jumpsuit with a few poofy bits of white lace on her head, shoulders, and base of her tail to make a customized wedding gown and being fed a piece of wedding cake pressed to her muzzle by the General. “This absolutely magnificent blackmail material……Is all pretty much a…..”

“Prank.” Trish filled in the last word for the android, sipped her own glass of champagne, leaned back in her chair, and let her tail twitch idly behind her. “By Sky Martial Tesla.”

Nailed to the registration desk on a spike of metal she’d tossed from the table was the paperwork that had been latched inside the General’s briefcase (standing in line when there wasn’t an official there managing the process wasn’t going to be part of wasting her day, thank you), and upon noticing that when she panned her armor’s scanners over Ichi-gou and Daemon. The suitcase in question was under Trish’s chair, and the genetic morph had been making idle conversation with her local comrades to fill in the time.

Ichi-gou, surprisingly enough considering his usual temperament, was more focused on downloading the images from the datapad Trish had formed out of her armor for him to peruse while they chit-chat than cracking jokes at the General's expense. “Why’re you so…Oh, nice one.” Ichi paused, looked at the screen with a raised eyebrow, and saved the image of both Trish and the General making toasts to their assembled guests. “Why’re you so…Relaxed about it? Isn’t this just kinda being demeaning to you?”

“I suppose it’s not the best kind of equal-op.” Trish replied, taking another sip of her champagne, forming a second datapad from the back of her hand, and passing it over to Daemon for his own examination.

“But you’re passing out these little mementos anyway?” Ichi-gou queried.

“Well, yes. You have to admit that as a joke it’s an exceptional one.” Trish’s voice, even if you were deaf, was blatantly smug. And on her muzzle was an obvious grin as she examined her own photo-gallery on the back of an arm. “If you don’t mind my asking Talisman,” Trish, not being familiar with Ichi-gou in a friendly manner nor really sure of his official rank, used the android’s codename. “Care to take a guess just why?”

“You’re weak to alcohol and the champagne’s got you kicking back?”

Trish took a purposefully longer than normal pull from the glass held delicately by its stem in her hand. “No. And don’t be that silly. I probably weigh more than you do.”

“He get under your scales?”

“Day one.” Trish replied a bit sullenly. “I don’t know why either. After we were introduced he apparently thought that a wall would be enough to keep me from hearing him denounce the whole Hybrid Corps. I knew what I was walking into when I agreed to transfer to his squad, but that was a bit of a slap on both sides of the snout.” Trish broke off the self-pitying (not genuinely of course, but borderline) train of through, and tipped her champagne to Ichi just far enough that it twinkled in the overhead lights, and grinned just enough to show a hint of her teeth. “But I figure the Sky Martial knows his habits and is probably using this as a hint to him that he should just get over his biases. So…I don’t have much of a grievance over the set-up. And I can probably have fun with it anyway. What’s he going to do? Court-martial me for following ‘orders’?”

Ichi-gou leaned directly across the table and tapped Trish’s glass with his sipper. “If he’s not red in the other eye by the time this tournament’s done with just you here then, m’lady, I give you my word to aide in making him burst a blood vessel.”

Trish, beaming, returned the toast, and promptly twitch an ear when she felt a familiar aura come in the front door. Upon turning she confirmed it was Pious, accompanying the General himself.

“Who’s the tourist?” Ichi-gou couldn’t help but stare at the former-Mystic’s glaringly flashy shirt.

“Pious Caster, Asimov’s protégé. He’s probably one of the nicer members of the Dogs, but I have a bit of trouble taking him seriously sometimes. He acts a bit…..Childish, you could say. Not in a bad way,” Trish corrected herself quickly at that. “He’s a relief in the company, actually. He’s a nice difference from Yeng and….The General.” The General and Pious had gotten through the entranceway by now, and were surveying the collected entities of the game.

“You gonna call him over?”

“His red-eye will pick us out.” Trish answered off-handedly, turning back and signaling the barkeep to bring a refill for her glass.

“Well…..Yeah….But you said your ‘mission’ was to see to his comfort while he’s here, right? Shouldn’t the wife, if she arrives early, make sure her husband’s got somewhere to take a load off between bouts of mortal combat?”

Trish paused midsip, and looked down both her muzzle and her glass at Ichi with a raised eye-ridge. “You make a good point.” The mewthree-fem set her glass down, and turned in her seat, and hunted both Asimov and Pious down out of the crowd.

“OH HONEY!” Trish’s voice produced a wonderfully loud, yet still melodic and feminine echo as it raced over the congregation in the lobby. “I SAVED YOU A SEAT OVER HERE!”

The sound of Ichi-gou coughing the shot of sake he’d just sipped back into his cup was drowned out however.

The entities in this tavern were indeed strange, some were metallic and some were hominid, some resonated with intense technological sheens, others seemed to echo the vast essences of the universe. Exhaling softly the creature known as Skallagrim the Cughtagh watched the interplay between the races, the familiarity of some, and the aloofness of others.

The laughter that echoed through the tavern on several levels betrayed uneasiness among some of the competitors while the quite nature of others spoke of a danger that sought release. The great sleeping queen would surely enjoy the memories and experiences that were being absorbed, studied and recorded.

Situated in the dark corner the sole Xindhi in the tournament was curious about the nature of the beings that carried firearms. Each was unique, different and seemed designed for a myriad of destructive properties. There were some beings of power that would be classified as magical in nature, beings who held some aspect of the ancient and hoary knowledge, indeed the very surge of power as those who wield such powers passed through the vast gates of this pocket holon.

The great amethyst energies where eyes should be flared and increased until they cast a purplish hue about, much like a black light did, causing the cream colored linens on the table that Skallagrim sat upon to glow. Soon the contest of arms would begin and regardless of the outcome, knowledge would be gathered and processed, slowly folded into the dream stuff of the great sleeper and then fused with the experiences of the Xindhi.

With a whisper, Skallagrim thanked the queen for allowing him to be released from his slumber to attend such a gathering. Silently as always the watcher merely observed and recorded all that transpired. Each moment of the existence caught and memorized as it played out in the memory of the holon itself, each individual moment forever recorded, forever shaping the unique nature of this realm, forever etched in the history of this existence.

Skipping the Filing Process

"Honey... when's the wedding..I love you..."

The shorter spellcaster stood blank-faced for a moment, his arms hanging limply at his sides beneath the heavy crimson robes. His head tilted slightly to the side, shifting the brim of his hat while his mind attempted to process what had just happened. It didn't take long. It seemed that strange little girls look was coming in handy. With a sly white grin, he quickly grabbed the young womans hand and pulled her through the crowd towards the bar.

At that moment, the charm seemed to have been disrupted by something within her cybernetic systems that the spell caster hadn't accounted for, and Subaru seemed to give him a look of 'But what about the tournament!?' As if having read her mind, Windsor turned to look at the counter several feet and many contestants ahead of where they were standing.

"Oh shI- Hey registration chick! She's already signed up, see!!"

With the snap of his fingers and a small 'pif' of smoke, a document similar to the one Windsor had filled out earlier appeared on the desk, to which an incredibly skewed description of Subaru had been 'written.'

"Name: Subaru the Military Hottie
Age: Legal
Sex: We'll see.
Weapons: Probably, but I'm used to mace.
Powers: Seduction level 10 and professional thief. She stole my heart.
Certification: Credential check in progress"

"Simply shameful," the young woman behind the registration countered sighed.

"When things slow down a little, be sure to get an official registration form from her," a second clerk replied.


Making a move

"I'll take a shot!" Windsor called out from a table to a nearby waitress, raising his silvery arm in an additional gesture. He turned his attention back to the young girl he dragged along, his hand reaching up to scratch the side of his head slightly while tilting the traditional hat.

"Uh...did you want something too? I'm sorry, I try not to intrude on peoples minds as much as possible," the robed figure started again with a laugh before freezing in place once again.

'Reeeeal smoooth'

'Windsor, look...it seems we're not the only Technocrats here.'

The voices of Boltzmann and daemon alike rang through the casters mind as his hand remained motionless at his temple from when it had been scratching. These moments seemed to last forever, only to be broken just as quickly, and yet within his mind, time held no meaning. What happened in only a few seconds could hold days or years worth of information. Such was the nature of his being.

'I know, how could I not notice,' the phantom bird had made a place for itself among the metaphysical in the rafters had diverted it's attention from the mechanical creature that first interested him to the space around the small bar. Most particularly to the gathering of Oroberus personnel sitting nearby. Ichi-gou, Reakaris Daemon, the genetic bio-form, Trish and quickly arriving to the scene, the great General Turscadine himself, and an apparent apprentice or assitant, Pious Caster. How could Windsor not know these people? In his years of service to the Technocracy, the spell caster made information his life and poured over the ArcherNet for anything that would be useful. Yes, it sometimes garnered great suspicion, though it always seemed in the end for the best. None could argue with Windsor's success rate, though often questioned his tactics. It wasn't every day you saw a magician in an organization like the Lombardi Corporation.

'You know,' the Bishop started again within the confines of his mind, ' I really hope there isn't some sort of rivalry between Oroberus and the E.F. I've never been this close to so many of them before so I can't say I know how they'll a-'

"“OH HONEY! I SAVED YOU A SEAT OVER HERE!” the mewthree called out to the highly respected General.

Windsor's mind and body were now frozen together for a split second, before his entire train of thought was driven recklessly off it's rails by the sudden intrusion of a stranger who had made his way to the magician and officer's table.

"Mind if I join you two?"

The spellcaster had been caught completely off guard, and demonstrated this by jerking suddenly from his internal gawking at the assumption that had created by the bio-engineered creation's sudden cry from the bar. The smaller robed found himself suddenly staring at another unfamiliar face of a man, while taking notice of a strange briefcase that had appeared beside his leg. The sudden change in medium from familiar to strikingly unfamiliar accented by a froth covered face and a hand-gripped beer, made the smaller spell caster lurch back slightly in a confusing display of shock and wonderment. Sure the man was different, but was he so different that Windsor had to act like he'd seen a mutant? More important than that, indicated by Windsor's swivel back to Subaru with a look as if expecting her to have the answer, was Apache Idaho really married to Trish?! Another ping to the spell casters suddenly alert senses informed him that yet another familiar presence, this one from the privateering Paradigm Inc. by the name of Kiyoshi Kazami, at one point known as the Cobalt Specter. And then the clog of information came.

"UUUUUHHhhhh...!"

Loud and obvious, such seemed to be Windsor's social style. The shorter man seemed to finally regain complete control over his body once more and exercised this returned ability by finally prying his thoughtful hand and scratching finger from the side of his head. The next step was to try and say something less embarrassing and more specific. With a nervous laugh towards Subaru, the spell caster turned back to the strange man and his suitcase standing overhead.

"Y-yeAH!"

'Volume control!'

"Sure? You...can, sit.. with us! I just ordered drinks myself," the robed mage managed to squeeze out nervously.

It was at that moment, the spell casters shot of some clear drink was left before him, to which he immediately grabbed and slammed down with a deep, hissing inhale. Just as the waitress started to walk away, Windsor's body began acting on it's own, reaching backwards without him having to look at all and catching the waitress just in time by the arm, though with enough care not to send her reeling backwards into the table. The mans timing was incredible.

Leaning back, he said to her in a lowered voice, "could you bring me the bottle, please? I might be here a while," and in the same fluid and smooth manner, dropped a handful of round gold pieces on her tray before releasing her immediately. She gave a nervous laugh that quickly turned to one of surprising comfort as she realized he was truly harmless in that act. Yes it was alarming, but nothing about it carried malicious intent or disrespect with it. Feeling confident that a successful recovery from the jaws of social faux-pas had been mounted and off to a running start, the robed magician turned his attention back to the table before him and his newest guests, most particularly the sizzling military woman, Subaru Nakajima of the Googleplex...

...completely forgetting that a third person had suddenly approached and been allowed to join their company at his very discretion.


Meanwhile...Singing In The Rain

The bird whose face bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the spell caster from whence it came, had remained ever vigilante in it's task to observe the particular individuals that had already taken note of Windsor. It's shadowy figure and bleeding aura still remained unseen by the general populace, while those who it was created for could see it quite clearly. The manifestation continued to stare with it's crazed human smile while the burning crosses in it's wide eyes could be seen by anyone who looked on the creature, gazing directly back into their own eyes. Such was the nature of the Bishop's magic.

But now, in the moments before Windsor's disturbance at the table, the phantom avian had turned it's infinite gazes onto a single, new objective. The table of assembling Technocrats. On wings of shadow and blood, the ghastly bird took flight once more and sailed silently to another beam closer to the growing table of familiars. Just as one would come to expect from a man like Windsor, the mighty raven passed through obstructions effortlessly. Despite all this, the phantoms actions were still taken with great care, for WIndsor new the limitations of his magic. Because of the nature of his organization, these agents would be fully capable of spotting the manifestation of the Crimson Bishop, and his goal was to go unnoticed...or at least as unnoticed as possible. At the very least, Windsor would have preferred they didn't know he was eaves dropping on their conversation. An operation of this caliber would take increasingly greater care. The specters bleeding aura faded to a thin line around it's empty, black body as the apparitions smile faded and it's face grew more serious and tight. With eyes fixed and senses reaching, the crow sat motionless in the darkness of the rafters, taking in every last detail while remaining as hidden as possible.

OOC: This was hammered out partly with SSJ3Mewtwo.

"I think I can handle keeping myself alive well enough," Asimov said to the Major. If nothing else, he was comforted by the large number of his fellow Agents in the local area. Most had faces he quickly recognized. A few, only by their Lombardi equipment. "Besides, it's not dying that has me worried right now." He pointed a gloved finger over towards the lobby, singling out the scale covered creature whose towering frame was burdened down with the General's personal luggage. Beyond that, at least Trish was trying to send across an air of professionalism. A Technocrat uniform-- of a different design from Asimov's own but still recognizable-- was tailored to her outlandish dimensions, and she appeared to be acting under the appropriate orders.

That illusion was quickly dispelled.

"Pious?" Asimov asked. "What did she just say?"

"I think she called you 'Honey.' That's kinda weird. I thought you were engaged to Dr. Harringan?" Pious replied. Trish repeated her call, this time with additional gusto. As she did, a strange chime emanated from Pious' duffel bag. He unzipped it and pulled out a glass plate layered with holographic writing. The seal of the Sky Marshall's office flashed red on its surface. "Oop! Looks like we have new mission information." He handed it to the General, who took it in a daze. The plate slipped out of from his fingers and Pious caught it before it shattered on the ground. "I'll...just look at that for us." He did so. A few seconds later, his teeth were clenching into his knuckle, trying to stifle a laugh. Asimov didn't notice.

A second later he snapped out of it, and his shock was rapidly supplanted by a mixture of rage and horror. He broke off from Pious and the Major and stormed towards the table where his new intern was sitting along with another face he recognized-- Ichi-gou, better known as the Ouroborus agent Talisman. He seemed vastly entertained by the whole situation, and leaned back, reclining in a position that seemed to say "This is going to be rich."

The General pushed his way through the line towards the registration desk. "Hey buddy," someone protested, "wait your-" but was silenced with a revolver butt to the side of the head before he could finish his sentence. Asimov took special care to step on the man's gut as he passed through.

Ichi-gou wiped the habu-sake that had dripped down his chin when (momentarily of course) lost a little control of his synthetic lungs. Cause damn, he'dve had to have been the stick jammed up the ass of a stick jammed up someone's ass to not appreiciate just how fucking perfectly the situation was set up. Just...Wow...Tesla was good at jokes. He'd never have expected that of the Sky Martial, and Trish bless her knew how to roll with one.

And the joke was on someone who didn't know how to roll with one, so really, that made the joke even better. Meaning the joke was perfectly, damn near scientifically (this is the Technocrats we're talking about here) devised. That right there....Yeah...Tesla get a bump up in points from the android.

Trish was considerably more reserved though, and perfectly content to set her hand on a fist and her elbow on the table, and let a grin creep from one cheek to the other at the General's approach. Cause....Yes, it felt good. After keeping her revoltion in check at Pacific State this was a wonderful induldgence of passive-aggresive revenge. Damned if she wouldn't milk it as best she should.

Her tail snaked out from around the base of her chair, and nudged aside a metal seat from the table for the General to occupy. "Welcome to the honeymoon, Honey."

She was positively beaming. Asimov was not.

"You're so god damn lucky that you have all my ammunition in those cases, Watkins. I'm not sure you understand how much I already don't want to be here," he said.

"Damn," Ichi-gou said to Trish. "His knickers must have done a 180." The General eyeballed the agent, who simply folded his hands behind his head and crossed his legs. He was in this for the long haul. Trish folded her ears back slightly and leaned back from the table.

"You could at least laugh a little bit at the set-up, General. Even if you just hate every hybrid in the Technocracy you have to admit Tesla did a wonderful job arranging this," she said. Asimov growled audibly, and her ears picked it up.

"That woman..." he muttered. "So we're supposed to be married? Was that some kind kind of cover for getting you in here?" Asimov let his frame sink into a chair, and rubbed his forehead. "No, knowing her, she did this just to make my life difficult." Pious ran up beside him, and again handed over the glass plate. This time Asimov took it firmly, and started thumbing through it. A look of utter horror descended like nightfall over his face.

"Shiiiiit..." he hissed.

"Got to the wedding pictures, eh?" Ichi-gou said. Asimov put down the plate, and rested his face in his hands. For a whole minute, he didn't say a thing. Pious had his head turned to the side to hide the hysteria creeping over him. Finally Asimov rose erect and gave his head a brisk shake, and looked over at Trish.

"Did you at least get the registration done? That is what Tidus sent you here for."

Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers!

In the middle of everything, a young woman dressed rather officially made a point to interrupt everything completely by handing the spell caster a note in a wax sealed envelope.

'Is this some sort of bizarre racism?' Windsor thought quietly to himself.

The man took the envelope with a nod as the bottle he ordered earlier finally appeared on his table. He didn't bother to take note of the waitress this time, instead preoccupying himself with the contents of the message. A strange smile crossed his face as he absentmindedly grabbed the bottle and simple bit off it's glass head and wooden cork. The caster chewed the rough material idly before washing it down with long swig of vodka. The bizarre wizard stood up immediately from his seat with the bottle in hand as a strange black vortex appeared in the palm of his hand like a black hole, immediately devouring the letter from the Tournaments Staff. Did he really hate the letter that much? No. Despite it's appearance, Windsor had simply put the letter someplace safe. After all, this was his first time in such a grand event. He'd want to save every memento he could and maybe scrap-book it.

"Well, I do apologize for rushing off like this but it seems they need me for the first round, so. If I don't die, I'll hopefully see you again."

All manners what-so-ever took back a back seat to his urge to fight. This was like Christmas rolled up in a vacation to Hawaii. There were people from everywhere with all manner of device and ability, and they all wanted to fight! What more could the Crimson Bishop ask for?

With confidence and excitement taking over his senses, Windsor all but ran to his arena.

There was a subtle change in the room, the murmur and buzz that filled the once pointless chatter was one of excitement, the contest was to begin shortly, the words that drifted from the passer-bys, was that the arena was to be the place of combat.

Easing from his seat, Skallagrim adjusted the swords that clung on the wide leather belts, wrapping the heavy cloak around his form; the Xindhi slipped through the milling contestants and made his way to a board where the seeds had been place. Searching he found his name, along with one called Ryan Michaels. Lowering his head, he reached out and froze this moment in his memory, it was the beginning of the experiences and knowledge the sleeper wanted.

Turning swiftly, glancing at the pathways that indicated the arenas, Skallagrim searched for his arena entrance, number ten. Seeing the large glowing numbers floating above the tunnel that lead to the place of combat, he paused. The amethyst energies swirled and flared a moment, the time was near, and the duel would begin shortly. From his place, he could hear the roar and cheers of the crowds for other fighters, for other fights. It had begun, if any had looked at him, they would have come away with the distinct impression the Xindhi was smiling.

Bastion had merely smiled at the General's assertion of his own capabilities. All things considered the man was probably right, given his experiences and skills and the things he had lived through in the past. On the other hand, when certain members of the Corporation had found out that their beloved icon of the Technocracy and Burning Courage was heading into a warzone without the assurance of their vaunted nanoregeneration technology, they had gotten somewhat jumpy.

Hence him.

Bastion followed quietly behind Asimov, restraining his curiosity at what was going on. Most of those present he recognized, from dossiers and briefings if not from personal experience. In all honesty he was surprised to find them all here. If it hadn't been for the General's developing situation - which the Major found vastly hilarious himself, though he wasn't about to let loose in Turscadine's presence - he would have been letting loose with his own comedic shots concerning the newest Ouroborus vacation spot.

However, funnier things had to take precedence.

Amusement over the General's nuptials aside, things had begun to come to a head within the lobby. It seemed the opening matches were up, and the contestants were being summoned to the fields of battle. A quick surface scan of the minds of those closest to the announcement board allowed him to glean the information he needed in a heartbeat's time. A lazy faux-salute was lobbed at the assemblage of Technocrats and he began making his way towards his chosen arena. Momentarily he paused before leaving, frowning as he bent his head and sniffed deeply at the collar of his fatigure shirt.

"Damn, I should have brought something else to wear. These still smell like dinosaurs."