The tranquil silence which hung over the registration facilities was broken by the careful, cautious strides of a man thoroughly determined and equally as confident that he was pacing his way to absolute victory and glory beyond compare. His features once again assumed the audacious auburn-tinted glare that had stared down hordes of competitors in previous encounters and contests, completely and utterly unyielding. In all truth, the man held not the lust for combat that so many others who would eventually tread along that marble route would possess, no, far from it. What Geldyn Rynhart III craved was challenge.

From the masterful orchestral compositions he developed at the Sparsian Academy to the poems and dramas he penned, everything had to be done with perfection in mind if competition was involved. Outside of such realms, places where naught but personal satisfaction was at stake, he could truly care less and his nearly every effort showed it. The would-be Lord Baron of the country of Ghale, the lost heir to the throne, the criminal, the warrior, the authentic polymath and purveyor of the arts. Despite adorning so many titles and facades throughout his shaky and still rather short lifetime, a lifeless and tepid apathy characterized his daily living; and even on the battlefield, if he had no glory or notice at stake, it would be deemed futile and promptly ignored. Such a truth however would make his reason for attending that competition all the more sensible.

Heaving something of a restless sigh, soon the lord baron's glare caught sight of the entrance sign, the words inscribed upon it receiving only a passing glance as he continued in unbroken steps towards the desk until at last pausing before it. Within a moment the sound of a pen dropping back to the table would be the only audible sound, his registration completed - penning it under the alias "Dusk" - as he found himself alone in his arrival there.

Am I truly the first to arrive? Perhaps this is fitting, although surely more competitors must be on their way..

Finished with the only matter of even the slightest bit of significance until the actual combat would begin, Dusk hastily set about ascending one of the two staircases, each dual blade fastened across his back rendering an audible 'chhnk!' with every step. The entirety of his arrival and registration would go without incident and nearly unnoticed completely, for he would keep himself completely locked away in that chamber - giving himself up to repose- - until finally beckoned forth by tournament officials once more.

Oleander drifted through the decorated marble pathway that the sculptors and architects have created. They have been granted the honor to create this gathering of all that is powerful as like Oleander who was invited to participate in this event. Of all the vampires, he was the one with the most knowledge of the Dark Arts as well as the one most well - studied.

He reached the registry and promptly wrote his name down. As he passed, he could feel all sorts of aura and power in the place, mostly domineering. He could, however, feel some that tried to hide... trying to mask their presence as a form of pretense. Different people, different strategies... There was so many things to learn. He couldn't help but smile at that thought.

He wasn't here to win; he was here to study... But he sure damned well knew the opponent would get a hell of a fight from him before going down, if they were good enough.

OOC Profile cleared, in character post pending.

The stones of the great hall seemed to tremble as his scarred and faded black boots touched the ground. For an instant it felt as if the world around the assembled warriors squirmed in agitation, almost as if it were pulling away from the newest arrival even as the fluttering, ragged edges of the gash through which he had arrived strained to seal themselves shut. A simple smirk twitched across his lips as he slowly began moving forward, the blood red leather of his coat hanging loosely against the backs of his thighs as his hands tapped lightly against their fronts.

As he slowed to a halt in front of the desk, he quickly swept a gleaming metal hand through his short, deathly white hair, removing the stray straggly locks from before his eyes where they had fallen. And what eyes they were. Blazing silver bore down upon the receptionist, like twin stars held trapped within God's hands. with an idle gesture he swept his power across the forms, filling in the information without truly paying attention to it before moving off to the side and leaning heavily against a weathered collossus of an ancient gladiator. Briefly he flicked some bit of dirt from the front of his black, cotton shirt before addressing those assembled.

"So tell me, any bets on who will be the first to die?"

OOC: In character post pending.

Observe, note and examine. Such is the purpose of the Sluagh, called dreams or nightmares, angels or daemons; they have walked along the myriad of existences merely watching the many forms reality has taken in the various holons that comprised the multiverse. Skallagrim continued that singular aspect of the Sluagh; he was watching the many contestants as they strode forth into the hall to register their presence. Some came in with arrogance, some with dignity, yet all the contestants were supremely confidant of their skills and abilities, believing it would allow them to crush their enemies and claim the prize.

The whorls of energy flared and illuminated casting an eerie amethyst glow from the hooded figure that had assumed a seat near the far wall of the foyer. Across stood the large being, betwixt them one who appeared…what was the term? After a moment of searching, the word materialized, drunken. Slowly they began materializing, combatants signing in, some seemed to not notice or perhaps were ignoring the large figure that claimed the area near the statues as if he were some lord or king. Aloof, demanding, dangerous.

One who entered spoke with a tone that resonated and thrummed, power was strong in this one, the voice carried a hint of…sarcasm? Perhaps disdain? Skallagrim focused on the being, studying it, observing and noting it, the metallic hand that seemed to shimmer and scintillate as the lights danced along its form, when suddenly a form intersected his vision, it was a female.

Looking upon the lithe figure, Skallagrim’s energy whorls seemed to narrow, the tendrils of power streamed and swirled around the cowl, before drifting off as the movements of the larger contestants created a sudden disturbance along the patterns of air. The female seemed to exude power, but not in the overt way some of the other warriors had, interesting…observe and note.

Skallagrim tapped the rune inscribed steel hilt of Keefe, and the weight of the darkly pulsating Rhiannon upon his hip gave him some small measure of comfort, there were indeed many beings of power, beings of incalculable strength. The contest of arms would be one of education and understanding, a test that indeed begged the question the metallic handed man had asked, "Who would be the first to die?

He was being watched...

Vega's starlight eyes moved to regard the cloaked figure of the watcher, the strangely blurry creature who seemed intent on studying and seeing everything about him. For a moment his view was interupted by a woman, an event which brought a faint expression of irritance to the sliver's face. It passed quickly enough, however, the Glutton's mercurial temperament giving way to the burgeoning sense of impending entertainment from the sheer gathered might of the arriving warriors.

Too much testosterone in one place generally leads to bad things.

Vega straightened, pushing himself away from the statue he had been leaning against. His smile had returned, brushing away the last of his vague annoyance as he began to move in the watcher's direction. His voice was quiet, yet it took only a slight nudging of his psychokinetic abilities to ensure that his words - those hooked and barbed things that spilled from an acid tongue - reached the cloaked observer.

"Find something to your liking, friend?"

Skallagrim had noted the others who had entered, but none seemed to take notice of him as he sat quietly on a bench, the dusky cloak trimmed with the same color as that which coalesced where eyes should be. Quite unsure of the protocol of such a gathering, Skallagrim just watched, simply drifting his gaze from one of the summoned champions to another, noting their builds, their visible weapons, and their distinct patterns that seemed to ooze forth, clearly each and every one of them was deadly and skilled. Each had faced and survived dangers, opponents and situations that would fill eons of slumber to understand.

The unexpected words reached Skallagrim, cocking his head slightly, the swirling lights focused on the being that had spoke to him, slowly the long unused vocal chords warbled, and a horrific croak emerged. Shaking his head, Skallagrim reached out with the Darshan and inflated and filled the instruments that would allow him to speak. The miasmic energies that filled the eye sockets flared and incandesced, radiating brilliantly, as the power he exerted became momentarily visible.

The pattern of power that materializes the image startled Skallagrim a moment as he focused on it; slowly he studied it, and realized it was an aspect of the large man he had made quick eye-contact with earlier. This was indeed a powerful being, the whorls of light flared again, the tendrils wisped up and swirled around his cloaked head, only to dissipate into nothingness, this tall being was someone to be studied for further dreamers.

Attempting to speak again Skallagrim said, “Liking?” For a moment the Xindhi glanced around the room, slowly he raised his hand and sweeping it around said in a low, strained voice, “I am merely observing the fighters. I do not like nor dislike, I merely observe my surroundings.”

Returning the amethyst glow towards the being that had spoke, Skallagrim whispered in the strained voice, “And you warrior, do you find things to your…liking?”

Vega paused in midstep, slowly lowering his foot to the ground as he peered up into the gaze of this suddenly there man. Anger roiled within, threatening to erupt from the void of the beast's soul, yearning to burst free in a tempest of bood, flame, and death. A deep frown slowly creased his features as the light bled from his eyes, revealing deepest black where once had been naught but light. Yet for the time being it would be held in check, for there were rules here, and at this moment in time the Ravenous felt the need to follow them.

Yet there was something else as well, something odd in this projection. Vega's senses went beyond the merely physical, those five basics given to most every creature. In this case, it was his stolen mental gift that alerted him to the strangeness, to the absence of that which he sought. Or rather, the misplacement of it. Abruptly the frown was gone, replaced by a lightning quick smirk of impetuosity. To that strangely misplaced psyche that was responsible for the projection, Vega sent a short message, a brief brushing of minds to relay his words.

And perhaps friend you would do well to leave your assumptions behind at the door before I tear them out through your gullet.

With that he was past the projection, brushing to its left in a quick few steps that would carry him closer to the cloaked man. The being's obvious discomfort and physical decrepitude amused the sliver somewhat, enough so that the arrogant prick with his illusion were lost in the chaotic jumble of thoughts.

"That I like? Certainly I do! I see blood and death before me, Watcher! I see rivulets of pain and torrents of agony in the near future. And that is to my liking, indeed..."

Skallagrim straightened as the being that had spoken to him, had approached him, and who now stood before him. The glow seemed to mute slowly, until they were mere pin points of amethyst light in the gloom-filled eye sockets. Slowly the Xindhi took the entire image in, the blood red leather coat, the black shirt, the ghoulishly white hair, the distinct absence of anything that could be called a conscious in the eyes that peered down to him.

Again the suffering shriek as the vocal chords strained to form the words that Skallagrim thought, “Blood and Death? Ahh yes the crushing of ones enemies in such a sudden and devastating fashion that is the path for all who have answered the call is it not?”

The energies flared and rushed back filling the face with a hideous amethyst glow as the tendrils of energy carried and illuminated the cloaked mask, the lower half of the Xindhi face hidden, the dried alabaster flesh around the eyes momentarily hidden by the energies, slowly became visible again.

Nodding to the approaching figure, Skallagrim whispered, “We have draw the attention of another it seems.” Standing slowly from his position, Skallagrim focused on the massive figure bearing down on them, like a glacier, inevitable, resolute.

Clearly the being was one used to command, offering a slight nod of the head; Skallagrim allowed once again the bright lights to diminish into pin points as he waited the other. A singular thought ran through his mind, The watcher was now the watched.

"Awaken, my Vanguard.”

There was a stirring in the mind of the one being spoken to. No more than a stirring though. A bare quiver of thought that was tinged with malice and corrupted by long dreams of nothing but the most wicked of evils.

"Awaken, my soldier.

The voice speaking was of clearly feminine persuasion. But there was an ethereal quality about it. Tone, inflection, accent, it seemed to carry a multitude of different variations to each. A word or two could be deep and sultry, tempting to the ear. Following a bare second later they intoned near wicked glee and enough sadistic pleasure that the hair on any rational being’s neck would have stood on end out of instinctive fear.

The one the voice was speaking to, however, felt only a quickening of the beat of his heart, the speeding of the icy-cold blood in his veins, and the surge of dark energies through his flesh as his body awoke from far too long a slumber.

"Your time, my avatar, has arrived at last. Rise! Cease your dreaming! The gathering has begun. Of my disciples it is you that will be the one to go and be my instrument. Awaken! Let my power rouse you, make you whole, flush you of your weaknesses and make you stronger than any you could come against! Open your eyes, receive the gifts I would bestow upon you to lay waste to the peons that disgrace all that I am. Awake!"

And he, The Avatar, did so.

In the dark and twisted womb of the Root of All Evil that he’d given his body to, embraced in the folds of corrupt malcontent given form and substance by his dark Goddess the Avatar rose from drifting through fields of blood, bone, tortured souls, and cries for mercy and an End, opened eyes that were cisterns of hateful red light, and gazed into the unending eternity of the Metaverse’s blackness that was his home.

Garbed in black and red robes embroided within humanly precisely styled pentagrams, and patched morbidly with scraps of skin from races the Metaverse over, the Avatar felt himself ready. He was primed for the coming violence as though he were an engine of Judgment Day himself (and truly, in the eyes of the mortals he was being summoned to smite, that is the very horrible truth of what he was and would forever be). But the Voice, his Goddess, the Embodiment of all that was Wrong, would not let him be unleashed upon the mortal plain without the surety that all he intended to fell would drop before him as though they were mere saplings in the grip of a hurricane.

At his right side, appearing out of the blackness as though it were the darkness of unreality given shape, form, and purpose, there came his black katana, the embodiment of Hate, the sword named Vice.

On his left hip, bound to a sash of supple skin torn from the living bodies of newborn babes, there came Judgment, his second curved blade.

A mere mortal did not need the senses of one trained in the dark-arts to feel the viciousness and violence the weapons radiated through their black sheaths of bones. The edges sang, silently of course, but the song was not meant for the ears to hear. It was to be felt by all that would fall before them on the most basic and instinctive of levels of primal fear. The twin edges had slain and murdered since time immemorial, spilled the blood of races and whole worlds, and carved a bloody imprint on the very consciousness of those in the plane of true Existence. And now they were alive again, in the possession of their barer, the one who would wield them to dispense a bloody and beyond Biblical massacre, The Avatar.

”And they will, my Soldier.” The voice, again, sensing his eagerness, the urging of the blades that were as much a part of her as the blackness that dwelt everywhere and nowhere at all. She offered her assurance that now was the right time, and that the place she sent him to would be that that was prophesized. ”I have seen, my Avatar. I have looked beyond the now and know what is to come. This will, of the slaughters you have waged in my name, be the greatest of any in your history. I have seen the pretenders fall before you like the Slivers, they that believe they are of an equal to your dark potential. I have seen you slay the summoned minions of sorcerers and butcher their flesh like cattle. I have seen you crush the defenses of those that believe physics and the laws of the material are of an equal power to your darkness, and teach them the truth of their ignorance and arrogance. I have seen this all, Avatar, and I send you to bring it about.”

Before him in the emptiness that was Her and Her voice, came his gate. His portal to the location of his slaughter opened wide, and through it poured a light that insulted and grated upon his eyes. Through the gate he could see a line of the victims that awaited him, going about their piddling little ways and dropping slips of paper upon a desk, and the urge to wade through the lot of them as a berserker of death became almost too strong to be controlled!

”You will pretend to obey their ways for now, Avatar.” At the Her words, the urge deflated as though it were a pricked balloon. She was, afterall, his Goddess, and to go against Her was unthinkable. She knew what was to come, and what She said was law immutable. “You will pretend to do as they ask. But soon, Avatar, soon I will give you word, and at my word you will spread my message. Now, go.”

And through the portal he went. In his hand, provided by Her, was a small slip of paper, much like those the pathetic beings he was here to bring the End to carried, and he did as they did, reaching out to place it upon the desk with the rest of their small offerings.

“Oh I don’t think so you son of a bitch!”

A hammer-like blow to the back of the Avatar’s head sent stars through his eyes a moment after a teenage voice shouted behind him, and a hand spun him around by the shoulder.

“Two fucking hours in line!”

The Avatar’s vision of a teen, clad in black coveralls, armed, and with a military haircut was blotted out when a fist struck him in the nose so hard it obliterated the obtrusion and the nasal cavity behind it.

“A fuckton of paperwork getting here!”

The teen hit him again, this time in the jaw, hard enough to knock out most of the teeth on the right side.

“And TWO FUCKING HOURS…!”

Another hit, the sound of the punch and the sound of the left side of his skull fracturing polluted the Avatar’s hearing.

“STANDING IN LINE…”

Another bone-shattering punch, this time to his sternum while being held in place by the shoulder.

“WHICH I FUCKING HATE DOING…”

A knee that felt the consistency of solid steel slammed home to the Avatar’s Adam’s Apple while his head was held steady, collapsing his throat in an instant.

“AND YOU THINK YOU’RE PULLING CUTTSIES!?”

A kick caved in the ribs on the Avatar’s right side, sent him bodily through the air, knocked him through a mensroom door, into a stall, and forced his back to demolish a toilet in a spray of ceramic and water. And then he died.

Back in the registration line, Ichi-gou grunted, glared at the slumped over and upside down body, straightened his coveralls, dropped his card on the desk, and stalked over to the bar. “Fucking emo.”

Asurai stood in a corner alone, covered by some shadows. He preferred to be alone, in due to his slight trust issues. He had no idea why he was here, or why he entered. Probably because he felt like he may be able to find some information. Though, he knew himself that he was just asking for trouble. As he glanced over the competition, he thought to himself, "Ugh. What have I gotten myself into? These guys all look like they could trash me like I was nothing. Oh well, guess it's to late to back down now. If I'm in this, might as well go through with it till the end." He continued to glance over his competition, comtemplating what he should do.