The Great Raiden RP Contest: Fighting Thread
 

Post your fight scenes here. Remember, if you post here, then you must also enter a scene into the Drama thread. You can only edit your post once. Have fun!

The moon passed silently overhead; drifting aimlessly in a sea of stars. The air smelled of cherry blosoms and Goemon was distracted for a momenent. It's definetly a good day to die, he thought to himself, or rather a good night. Quickly his attention returned to the task at hand. To his left something moved through the bushes. Drawing his sword he moved toward the sound. As he neared it's source the movement stopped. Suddenly, the bush exploded with movement as a small flock of birds took flight. Goemon stumbled backwards as the birds rushed past him. He went down smashing his elbow on a rock. As his fingers went numb his sword went flying off to his right. This timely accident saved his life.

His sword embedded itself into the chest of a would-be attacker. The black cloaked figure went down with a slight thud; blood gurgling in his throat. His face contorted into a death mask as drew his final breath. Goemon stood and walked to his newly dead foe. "It would seem that luck is still with me this night," he murmered to himself as he bent down to recover his sword. As he leaned over the corspe a sword flashed over his back severing his ponytail.

Instinctively, he rolled foward drawing his sword along as he went. When he came to the end of his role he stood and spun around at the same time. Quickly bringing his sword up sparks flew as metal clashed; bathing the combatents in an erie glow. Goemon struck at his attacker pressing his momentary advantage. A quick parry sent him off balance; seeing his chance the shadowy figure followed quickly with a short slash to Goemons left arm. He cried out in pain as blood began to flow freely down his arm. Goemon staggered back clutching this new injury. Then, with a scream of pure rage, Goemon flew into his attacker. Fighting with an unholy strength he shattered his attackers blade. Defenseless and stunned the darkly clad figure slumped to his knees. Goemon's blade glinted with captured moonlight as he raised it above his head one final time. There was a soft thud that signaled the end of this late night encounter. As Goemon lay still in a slowly growing pool of blood a third figure appeared from the woods behind him, bow in hand.

Ooc: 1st person time, and non human combat. mwahahahahaha.

I sit and howl to the moon. My silver fur glows white in the light of the pale eye. My pack-mates follow my lead. Without sound my padded feet move with quickness and I run on my four legs over the terrain. My prey's sent filling my nostrils. The musky sent of the herd fills my mind. I bear my fangs as their stink burns my nostrils. Our call frightens the heard. I can hear the thunder of their hooves. The plains fly beneath me as we run through the tall grass.

"This one loves the chase," my mate barks. "It makes the catch all the sweeter."

"Yes, dear love." I yelp back

I sight a straggling buffalo, it's brown shaggy fur mottled with dead grass. There is fear in its eyes; it has fallen behind the heard. My pack surrounds the frightened beast. It has fallen to my love and me to kill this creature. I bare my teeth and snarl, and growl. The buffalo turns to find an escape. My pack begins to circle. The buffalo charges my mate. I rush in and sink my claws along its powerful legs and viciously bite the hamstring muscles. My mate leaps to the side as the buffalo's leg collapses. The animal cries out as she moves stealthily in and rips it's throat out.

My pack waits and congratulates us on the fine kill. We all feast that night, and sing our praises. Howling long into the night.

*shing*

*clank*

*ting*

Those were the only noises that could be heard as the two expert swordsmen fought inside the empty warehouse. Zack, a 5'9 Caucasian male in his early twenties, and Zoé, a 5'7 black female in her late twenties, were the names of the two swordsmen. Zack, who was clothed in a black T and loose black jeans, was dual wielding katanas, while Zoé, who was dressed in a red tube top and tight black leather pants, was toting a massive claymore. The two hardly seemed to breathe at all as they stared each other down from a short distance, fore they both knew the other was their equal in skill. Zack, who had an advantage in speed, rushed forward in the space of a short breath, arms crossed over wielding his katanas at his side, as he tried his double Boten Jitsu strike. However Zoé knew how to counter this move, and as she saw and heard his initial steps she readied her heavy blade. As Zack uncrossed his arms in a quick cutting motion at Zoé, she turned the flat of her blade in the direction of Zack, causing his attack to force them into a sword lock. Zack's katanas were scissored on Zoé's claymore, leaving him at a major power disadvantage. Zoé pushed him back, forcing him to skid several feet due to her advantage in shear brute force, and ran after him, sword held high. She brought the weapon down hard at her opponents, but he rolled away and made a quick slash at her, cutting her leg . At that moment Zack thought to himself, She has a lot of weight on me so the best plan would be to focus on her legs to immobilize her. Zoé took advantage of her opponents lapse in concentration and swung the flat of her sword at the mans right shoulder. Zack just barley had enough time to raise a katana, lessening the power of the attack but not stopping it. The heavy sword crashed into his shoulder with a sickening *crack*, and Zoé knew the mans right arm would be useless. With a *clang* Jack's right katana hit the ground, because he couldn't hold on to it. Zack bore the incredible pain with a grimace and used the angle of his opponent to his advantage. He dove at her, slashing with his left katana, and before Zoé could react he had made a very deep wound in her left leg. She kicked out at him with her right leg, as blood flowed freely from her left, but missed as he rolled painfully away.

Both warriors were now badly damaged in one way, and starting to feel the effects of fatigue. Jack had lost the use of his right arm and Zoé had lost the use of her left leg, Zoé had lost her ability to move, Zack had lost a lot of power. Neither were ready to quit yet. They once again stared each other down, preparing for what would come next. Zack ran at Zoé dodging her first attack and running behind her. He slashed at her back, but she kicked back with her right leg catching him in the stomach and knocking him back. With a spin she brought her blade hissing through the air at the man, but it was not quick enough and the man ducked. The man drove his sword at Zoé's stomach but to no avail as she stopped and brought her blade down horizontally knocking the mans katana to the ground. She smiled thinking, he's at my mercy now. She bent over and picked the mans katana up and said,"Looks like you lose this one." Zack smiled and replied in a humorous voice,"That's the way it seems, love." Zoé looked over her shoulder and said,"There's always your other katana." Zack laughed and said,"I know you'd finish me the second I turn my back to retrieve the sword." Zoé joined him in laughing and said,"Well it was a good game then, see you in a minute." At that moment she cleaved the man in two with her claymore. The mans body digitized and disappeared from the virtual reality fighting game, leaving digital blood all over the spot where he had been. The word WINNER flashed across her screen as she removed her helmet to see her husband, Zack, already waiting in the real world. He simply asked,"Best 13 out of 25?"

Five meters thought Shade. He was crouched within some very thick bushes, hiding. To be exact, he was in northern China in the middle of winter, with five guards standing in front of him. Past those guards was a helicopter, and two people talking. One of the two conversing men was very tall, at least 6’. He also had a beard with a handlebar mustache, and dreadlocks. The other was a small, thin Chinese man in a labcoat. This helped to disguise him in the snow, but not within the forest.

The large man was named Mort. French assassin extrordinaire, who had been cloned and revived by the other man, Dr. Shang. Shade himself was a hitman, and he was at last on his home stretch. Dr. Shang was his target. All that stood between him and his final target were five poorly trained Chinese soldiers, five meters, and a French assassin that Shade held with a mixture of respect and fear.

He wasn’t completely alone. About 80 meters away, hidden in some more bushes, was Leon. Leon had thought of bringing a sniper rifle, for which Shade was eternally grateful. Shang started to hand a briefcase over to Mort, and Shade started to rise. His black and red suit was getting soaked, but the black mixed with the bushes. It also concealed his sole armament for taking down one of the greatest threats to international security. One .45 pistol with 3 bullets left, a pen, and a pocketknife. Not exactly James Bond.

Still, time was cut. Time to go to work. Within the space of seconds he planned out how to get to Shang and kill him, and put it into action. Reciting to himself, he reached to the first person. Right fist to the side of the head, left hand in chop. Snap neck. He followed his own plan, and slammed his right first into the right side of the first guard’s head, specifically the temple, and chopped with his left in the middle of the neck. There was an echoing snap, followed by a slight whoosh as Shade flung the body out of the way.

Knife to aorta, don’t pause. Shade smoothly drew and opened the pocketknife, and slammed it into the throat of guard #2. Not breaking stride, he weaved around the third opponent. A crack echoed through the winter air, and the recently avoided guard spasmed. The fourth guard was turned all the way around, and Shade’s mind hissed, New plan. Avoid airway. Go straight for the brain. Shade slammed his fist into the guard’s nose, driving the cartledge into his brain. The fifth guard’s head snapped back as Shade reached him, which gave Shade the last obstacle. Mort.

While his right hand pulled the gun, the left found Mort’s shoulder, and used it to aid Shade in flipping over the killer. Shade’s right hand started to bring the pistol to bear. It arced, stretching towards the doctor’s face. Then Mort turned and his Shade’s wrist. The bead on the gun went awry, missing the Doctor, firing a bullet about 3 inches to far to the left.

Shade’s legs missed finding purchase on the snow, and he flopped onto his back. Mort slamemd his heel down onto Shade’s wrist, releasing the gun. Shade rolled, and lashed his feet out, catching Mort in the chin. This snapped his head back, and gave Shade the time to stand, and start towards Shang. Mort kicked Shade in the back of the knee though, which brought him onto his knee.

Shade’s patience then snapped. He rolled backwards, using that to drop a double-footed kick in Mort’s chin. As Mort stepped back, Shade got onto his feet, and turned in time to block a punch. But Mort instead grabbed that arm, pulled down, then away, and slammed his knee into the chin of the now horizontal Shade. This rattled his teeth and sent his sprawling onto the ground.

Mort started towards him, but kicked out into Mort’s knee. This halted him, and let Shade jump up. Instantly, he fired a chop towards his throat, but Mort blocked it. Shade reversed, spinning the other way, and feinting the obvious attack. Mort wasn't fooled, and was perfectly prepared to block Shade's kick. In return, he slammed his heel down on Shade's instep.

Shade hissed, and drove his elbow into Mort's solar plexis. The two seperated, but Mort was the first to initiate combat again. This time by launching a kick at Shade, and bringing his right hand up. Shade side-stepped, and spun along the leg.

Which is why Shade pulled out his pen, and slammed it through the hand, grabbed the wrist, and used a kick to stick it into Mort’s eye. As the dead frenchman started his descent, Shade started his sprint towards Shang.

The doctor was already jumping back into the helicopter, and got all the way in the moment that Shade got a grip on his gun. Two bullets remained. As he rolled, Shade started to mentally set where the doctor would be. He slid to a stop, gun levelled right at Shang. And he pulled the trigger. The gun jammed.

Shade yanked back on the slide, but realized that Shang had closed the door. Not wanting to miss this chance, Shade turned his aim and fired at the pilot. Luckily, the bullet passed through the glass and into the pilot’s throat.

The helicopter wobbled, and careened down, crashing. A terrified Shang scrambled out, and desperately tried to run. Shade bolted after him. Shang tripped. Shade skidded to a stop. Shang produced a small gun. Shade disarmed him. Shang screamed for mercy. Silently, Shade acknowledged one simple fact. I’m a hitman. My job is to kill. There is no mercy.

BLAM.

such grace, such beauty
 

The fresh morning air was crisp and cool. A light fog wafted in through the door less opening of the makeshift guard post. The sun was just beginning its ritual assent into the heavens. Long shadows of tall trees covered the area surrounding the shack in discordant criss-crossed patterns. A man clothed in a fully enclosed suit of protective armor perused the horizon through a tinted face visor. He stood erect and alert, waiting for any sign of intrusion upon his charged domain. His fellows slumbered fitfully inside the decrepit hovel, five formless shadows slowly revealing details to the onrushing light.

A soft rustle of the foliage a short distance away from the guard incited his rifle to search for the source. His sights squared on a small long eared rodent. A wan smile crossed his dry lips, the first in many days. “such grace” he thought, “such beauty.”


Checking the chronometer on his wrist, the watchman noted it was time to break camp. He sounded a rather raucous reveille with a few short bursts of rifle fire directed toward the same heavens that the sun now climbed towards. His comrades all awoke with a start, wide-eyed and anxious, instinctually grabbing their arms, which lay beside their beddings. The gunner laughed softly to himself, and proceeded to make preparations for departure. He packed his travel bag with the cooking and eating utensils he had used the previous night, and stared east towards the home he would soon return to.

"You scared the shit out of me sarge!" exclaimed the youngest amongst his men; a look of hope so alien these past few days was painted across his dirty face. The young man was happily packing away his belongings as well, as sure now that he would be home safe as he was sure the sun would rise tomorrow.

"Serves your tired ass right!" the sarge yelled in an uncharacteristically upbeat tone. He struggled with his own enthusiasm; he knew he still needed the single-minded focus of battle. The danger was not over yet; they were still a day’s travel away from the extraction point. The optimism he felt could not overshadow the fact that real, palpable danger still loomed over him and his men like the now glaring morning sun.

With a jolt of realization, the sarge turned towards the nearby forest. He scanned its dense foliage, searching for what his peripheral vision had just alerted him to. He stood transfixed by the bewildering overlays of green on green for several seconds. A sparkle drew his attention, like that of light reflecting from metal. A warning rose in his throat, as did his rifle barrel. His actions were cut short, however. A brilliant gleaming streak shot towards him from the high branches of a tree. A work of art created for ending lives. The weapon of surpassing beauty pierced the throat of the bewildered sarge, and embedded itself into the thick wooden walls behind him. The young, energetic man who had just spoken with him was the first to see the macabre scene. He stared for a second before letting out a cry of "Ambush!"

As the man wrestled with his rifle, a flash of cyan and magenta tore into view, its speed was incredible and it reached the shanty before the boy could formulate a thought. As it stopped in front of him, clutching the hilt of the blade embedded still in the breathing throat of the sarge, he could see that the thing was a person. The loveliest person he had ever seen, a vision of feminine perfection marred by a terrifying feral expression. As their eyes met, she tore the sword from its human sheath in a movement that at once freed it and cut the throat of the poor soldier who stood momentarily with a dumbfounded look upon his face. Before the body could land she had pounced over it in a single leap and sliced through the shoulder of another soldier, she then twisted it in a perpendicular direction and wrenched it free from the dying mans shoulder by severing his arm off. A brilliant cascade of vitae sparkled into a shaft of light beaming through a glassless window on the east face of the building.

The assassins beautiful features were now covered with a sheen of blood. The remaining three men drew a bead on her and began firing on full automatic. A deadly storm of minute projectiles pierced the damp air within the small abode. She fended off the bullets with her gore stained sword. Most flew into the dirt floor, a few were redirected past her into the still warm corpse of the boy soldier, making sickening noises as they entered his prone form. One stray bullet found its resting place three inches into the skull of the front most gunman.

As the woman removed the barrel of one of the remaining soldiers’ rifles with a quick flick of her blade, the other leapt from the window. The lone man left in the guard house threw a clumsy punch towards his demonic adversary. The assassin ducked lithely, almost absentmindedly, and inserted her sword to the hilt in the screaming mans gut. His cries were ended by the path the blade took from his navel through the top of his head.

The man escaping sprinted towards the wooded area near the encampment, perhaps instinct told him it would provide for cover. He dove behind a large shrub and aimed his weapon toward the shack. His heart beat so fiercely that it became a deafening roar in his ear. Sweat dripped liberally from his brow, and his hands shook violently. He saw the woman covered in the blood of his team mates emerge from the building. She was gorgeous, sensual, perhaps even more so because of the red drops which spattered her face and streamed down her bare legs to gather in small puddles at her feet. She stared directly at the soldiers hiding place, and began to advance slowly, with the same unreasoning allure about her. He was transfixed, how could he be overcome by passion at a moment like this? He was a professional, and this woman, this demon, had just slaughtered his friends as if they were children.

Conflicting images of bloody vengeance and animal passion coursed through his brain like a film strip improperly edited. He shut his eyes and rubbed them vigorously, trying to focus on his goal. What was his goal? He could not answer himself anymore, he was adrift on a sea of desire. As he opened his eyes to look, not for his enemy, but for the thing he now wanted most in this world, he saw nothing. The grassy hill atop which sat the impromptu tomb was barren of life, only the soft ruffling of grass blown by the gentle morning breeze hinted towards the fact that he was looking at a real hillside, as apposed to a still life drawn by a masterful hand. He was frantic now, not with terror but with expectation and longing. Where had she gone? His anxiety welled to a devastating crescendo as he burst into tears, dropping his rifle onto the muddy ground at his knees. He sobbed into his hands with unabashed fervor, until a touch disturbed him.

A delicate touch from a delicate hand laid ever so gently atop the broken mans shoulder. He looked up into the eyes of his one desire. For a moment he was blissful, his outstretched hands reaching for her beautiful yet melancholy face. He touched her cheek, turning the scattered circles of blood into random smears across her unblemished skin. She knelt beside him and pressed her lips to his, still covered as they were with the blood of his slain companions. As he tasted the salty mixture of her perfect lips and human blood, he also tasted death. Her blade moved imperceptibly fast, severing the mans’ head from the entirety of his corpus. As she sat on the sodden ground in the shade of a great tree, she stared blankly at the sun, and began to weep softly.

In the doorway of the guard house a man still drew ragged breaths through his tortured airway. His sight was dimming, as if some unnatural night were descending on the land even now, so soon after sunrise. He felt no more pain, only a slow coolness reaching through his body, starting from the tips of his toes. “Such gracel” he thought, “such beauty” and then he slipped away into slumber eternal.

(This is continued from my post in the drama thread)


There were five of them. Five speders, the deadliest assassins in the world. Mages and warriors all in one. No guns though, that was good. But it was still pretty bad over all. How they had known Kane was in this tavern he didn’t know. But here they were.

They wanted it, whatever it was. Kane had it, and they wanted it. Kane wasn’t exactly obsessed with it, but he wouldn’t just give it up easily. It seemed, however, that these men were obsessed with it, and wouldn’t give it up easily.

Leader (Kane’s creative name for the leader of the speders) was standing across the table, and the others were moving to surround him. That left him one choice, and that made things easy. Kane shoved himself backwards. As his chair began to tip over, his hand went down to his revolver, and he fired.

The chair hit the ground. He began to roll backwards. An explosion. He was burning. He was flying. He struck something. Heat. Pain. Blood rushing in his ears. No sound. He was in the kitchen. Wait, that couldn’t be right, he had been twenty feet from the door to the kitchen. No, wait, there were ovens and stoves in here. This was the kitchen. He was sitting in the kitchen. He was sitting against a counter in the kitchen. Leader and two of the speders were moving towards the kitchen. Kane scrambled to his feet and over the counter. He was bleeding. No sound. He ran through the kitchen. Faint sounds. He still had his pistol. He turned around to see hundreds glowing darts pierce the walls. Whatever was doing it, it looked like it was outgunning a gattling gun. He dived to the ground. He replaced the bullet he had fired. He could hear the screams of people dieing, and the crashes and explosions of the darts striking the far wall of the kitchen.

When the darts stopped coming, he leapt to his feet, his gun in front of him. Two speders were in the doorway. One had his sword out, the other had his hands ready, but neither were fast enough. Both died, shot in the face and chest. Kane dived back to the ground again just before the hail of magical darts began again. He crawled between the counters, reloading his pistol as he went.

The kitchen was in ruins. The main ovens had been burst open, igniting the wooden splinters in the air. Knives, pans, meat, ingredients were all over the place. The air was filled with dust and smoke. He could hear clearly the fire behind him.

The darts stopped again, and Kane jumped up. Leader was in the doorway now. Yelling something. Kane started shooting, but Leader’s arms deflected the bullets. That wasn’t right. No, no, it was, because Leader wasn’t dieing. Kane needed to reload. Leader slammed his hands together, and shot a giant fireball screaming towards Kane. Kane went down on all fours just in time. He felt his hair be seared away. An explosion. A wave of heat washed over him. A faint ringing sound in his ears. He opened his eyes and saw sunlight pouring through the smoke and dust. Leader had blown a huge gaping hole in the side of the kitchen.

Kane bolted for the whole. He tripped into the back alley behind the tavern. He landed back first on the wet concrete, lightning and death shooting over him. Leader and the surviving two were in the kitchen. Kane fired and rolled away. He got up, and started running. He rounded a corner, another corner, and ducked into a small doorway. The door was bolted shut. Damn. But the door was far enough into the wall to give him some cover. He reloaded.

Damn! His rifle was somewhere in the tavern. He liked that rifle too. Damnit. That would have helped a lot. Oh well.

He was bleeding. Forehead, right above the eye, left hand, no wait, left arm. A long cut on his arm. Damn, it split his sleeve all the way from his wrist to past his elbow. But it was shallow. Nothing major. He’d be fine.

No footsteps, all was quiet. He stepped out of the doorway. Lightning rushed an inch from his stomach. He went back into the doorway. The speders must have something to dampen their footsteps. Kane ducked out of the doorway and shot. Miss. The alley ignited with shards of ice. He ducked out and shot again. Hit! Wait, he blocked it too. Damnit! They all know how to deflect bullets. That made things difficult. Lightning and fire exploded all around him

He turned around and poked his head out as quickly as he could. The road wasn’t that far away. He could make it. Maybe. Eh, no reason not to, right? He jumped out of the doorway and ran, firing wildly behind him. He felt seared. The walls of the alley erupted, spewing bricks everywhere.

He made it! Much of his hair was burned, his clothes were torn, and he was bleeding, but he had made it. He turned the corner, and ran into something. In fact, he almost fell over it. It was a metal fence. No, it was just one bar, 4 feet off the ground. It was a rail. A metal rail on a street? Oh shit, it wasn’t a street at all, it was a train track. They were wide tracks, must be the freight lines. He was on the sidewalk next to the freight track. No room to jump or hide here. Even worse, the track itself was 30 feet below the sidewalk. Jumping was out of the question. And there was a rumbling sound. A train was coming. A big one. He looked and saw the plume of black smoke rising from the train’s smokestack.

Just as the train passed Kane, Leader rounded the corner, sword out, about ten feet from Kane. Kane started shooting, but the bullets just bounced off. The sword sliced at Kane as he stepped back. Kane punched with his left hand, but Leader ducked and shoulder rushed Kane in the stomach. Kane landed on his back. The smoke from the train engine choked him. Leader raised his sword to slash downward. But before Leader could strike his final blow, Kane shot him in the knee. Leader’s knee exploded. Whether Leader’s shield had worn out or just didn’t cover all of him, Kane didn’t care. All that mattered was that he wasn’t going to die.

But Leader wasn’t stopping. Only slightly fazed by the loss of his leg, Leader balanced on his other one and raised his blade again for a second downward stroke. Kane did the only thing he could do: roll. Under the fence and into the smoke-filled air. He was falling. He landed on his hands and knees. A searing pain went through his right hand. His pistol was still there, but his right hand was broken, so he grabbed the pistol with his left hand. He was on the train. More importantly, he wasn’t dead. Yet. He staggered to his feet. Freight trains don’t move nearly as fast as the magically driven passenger trains, so Kane could stand with only a little trouble.

The train suddenly shook. Kane turned around. And there was Leader in all his deadly glory. Blue energy had replaced his left leg, and his sword was glowing a particularly deadly looking shade of yellow. Leader charged. Kane shot. Leader went down, bullet in his left thigh. The blue magic that had formed Leader’s leg winked out of existence. Leader fell and rolled involuntarily. He fell. Leader was gone.

No, his hand was hanging on the edge. Leader was still there. A man like Leader probably had a plan that had him on the receiving end. Kane knew his gun was empty, so he turned and ran further up the train. He jumped down in between two of the cars. He forced open the door to the next car forward and jumped inside.

It was noisy with the sounds of rushing air and creaking metal. It was dimly lit, and Kane could see boxes. There were hundreds of boxes, haphazardly arranged. He ran down the path between the boxes, and ducked behind one of the larger ones. He tried to reload.

Damn! His right hand was badly broken, and some of his fingers. He tucked the gun into his right armpit, and began shoving bullets in as fast as he could. He got to four before the train shook again. There was a massive explosion. The train car began to tip over. There was the hideous screech of metal on metal, which was cut off by the louder screech of the train’s enchantments kicking in, struggling to set the train back on the tracks.

He realized that he could hear the rushing wind much more loudly now. He peered around the box, and saw that the back of the car had been blown open, and that the connection between the cars had been severed. Kane’s half of the train rushed onwards, unaware of what had just happened to it.

Kane collapsed to the ground. He was tired and injured, but still alive. He slipped slowly into a welcome sleep, hoping that the train was heading somewhere nice.


(Edited for my edit)

Shadows shifted around him, taunting him. They were many, and he but one, and they knew that the advantage was theirs. Fear trembled in his heart, but he held it down. He made a feint to one side, actually attacked on another. The blessed steel cut through a dark form, but its comrades buffeted him back, the blows leaving dents in his armour, and an evil chuckle rippled around the dark circle. He was trapped. Taunting him only went so far, though, and his shadowy foes began to hunger for more physical entertainments. A shadow attacked him, but was cut down. This gave the rest pause. Finally one shadow raised its harsh, sibilant voice in command, and the ring closed like a black wave. Suddenly there were shadows all around him, claws tearing at him, leaving deep scratches in his armour. He fought them, his bright blade scything through the shadows, but there were always more. Still he fought on, but the fight began to take its toll. Dark claws began to break through the steel plate, began to tear his flesh. His human muscles ached, while his unnatural foes needed no rest. His sword swung more heavily, brought down fewer darkling foes. Slowly they began to overwhelm him, and he felt the fear that he had suppressed begin to rise up, begin to overspill its bonds. In desperation he reached into his pack on the ground, pulled out a torch. A dark hand beat his, the torch skidded away through the throng, taking with it his last hope. He lunged after it, cutting ahead of himself, heedless of the claws raking his back. The torch lay ahead, but a mob of shadows had overtaken him, and a powerful blow sent him skidding along the cold stone away from the torch. He got to his feet, dodged another attack. They they had been spread out by his attack, and he moved as fast as his burning muscles would allow to take advantage of this. He darted right, dodged around a small group of shadows, cut down a lone opponent. The torch was near, but they knew their weakness, and were thickest around it. He didn't pause, just charged the mob, sword raised. At the last moment he dived, passing through the insubstantial bodies of his opponents, his back raked by their icy claws. He tucked and rolled, catching the torch on the way, and continued through the other side of the mob. He made it to a wall, and his sword rang as he struck a spark on a grey stone block. The spark caught in the volatile fuel that soaked the head of the torch, and it sprang to life, pushing the shadows back. They circled around the pale perimiter, snarling, as he moved slowly for the exit. He gained the stairs, and began up, the shadows following like a malevolent fog. He reached the exit, stepped out into the open air, and stopped in shock. While he had fought, night had fallen, and under the faint starlight the earth lay dark. He turned to the dark door, in time to see the shadows pour out and surround him again. He had but one torch, not enough to last the night. The shadows settled down to wait.

Quasta checked back over his shoulder again. Yeah, he was still chasing him. Things weren't looking good either; he was almost out of fuel. Looks like he would have to face him.
There was a corner going around the cliff ahead, and Quasta grinned from under his helmet. Looks like my bike ran low at the right time. As he came around the corner, he veered his bike sharply to a halt, throwing himself onto the wet road. Rolling back up on his feet, Quasta pulled out his knife and handgun, ready for whatever his foe had planned.
Snap. Quasta spun and looked up in realization. His dismount, quiet as it was, was exposed by the falling of his bike, and his pursuer saw it coming. He lept down on him, firing his handgun through the thick rain. Quasta lept up, firing as well. Bullets streamed out in both directions, and red mixed with the rain on the pavement as the two of them clashed in midair.
Both of their guns, no empty of bullets, fell to the ground nearly a second before their owners crashed into the pavement. Quasta had managed to land on top, but quickly found himself being kicked off. He landed on one leg, the other pierced by a bullet. "What do you want from me?"
"Simple, child. I want you to die." Without another word, the assailent drew a machete from his pant leg, holding it steady in one arm while the other was limp. So I landed a shot too.
Quasta struggled to stand up and held out his own blade. He gestured with one hand for his assailent to come at him, and the bladesman began walking slowly toward him, spinning his machete in an intimidating manner. Then, in a sudden blur of motion, the machete came down in a diagonal arc. The knife rose to meet it, but was knocked aside. Strained udner the force, Quasta collapsed forward. The knife went first, slicing into the foe's hip.
"Damn you boy, now you're really going to feel pain!" The bladesman rose his machete to stab down at Quasta, but he rolled away at the last moment, coming to his feet. Quasta's smirk was invisible under his helmet, but his cocky demeanour ended quickly as he realized he was standing at the downhill edge of the cliffside road. The helmetless foe, grinning, came toward him in the same slow pace, this time without any fancy bladework.
It was all the opening Quasta could afford. With a quick and desperate motion, he flung his blade at the face of his foe. Chink. The blade deflected downward. A rip could be heard as the deflected knife tore into the attacker's other leg. Collapsing soundlessly, the machete fell from his hand as he grasped is mangled leg.
Quasta walked, with difficulty, up to his enemy and picked up the machete. He held it up to the throat of his foe, ready to decapitate him.
"How could you defeat me? I am stronger than you! Better in every way!"
"I guess I got lucky, father."
The man's corpse went over the cliff in a brief red waterfall.

The rain clung to the red robed mage as he ascended the mountain where he knew the knight would be. He had his staff drawn, as well as his sword. Electricity danced across the blade, being enticed by the water dripping onto it. A bolt of lightening struck a tree nearby, setting it aflame. But this only helped to bring more light to his eyes. He glanced steadily ahead, noticing the red armor of the knight glowing slightly in the night. "Conor!" the mage shouted against the roaring wind.

The night had his sword drawn already, a gleam in his eyes. He noticed the mage coming. He laughed. "So, the mage comes for his revenge. I will kill you just like I killed your parents!"He cried, advancing on the mage, his sword out in front of him. There blades met, conors coming down in an arc. The mage deflected the sword easily,and struck out with his staff, hitting conor in his side, but the armor only deflected the blow. Conor grabbed hpold of the staff, and yanked it out of his hands, throwing it out over the cliffs edge. "Now you dont have your precious magic to use against me" Conor roared, bringing his sword down upon the mages shoulder. It made contact, driving deep within his flesh. The mage cried out, but not with the cry of pain, but with the cry of the arcane language of magic. He layed a hand on Conors arm, a red glow appearing.

This time it was the knight that cried out, and in pain. The mage withdrew Conors sword from his own flesh,a dn drove his own sword deep into the abdomen of the knight. Conors eyes suddenly widened. "Cant.....believe it........beated.......by a weakling by you." The knight slid of the mages sword, and slumped to the ground, dead at the mages feet. The mage stared down at the knights dead body. "You are revenged mother, and father." He dropped to his knees, tears finally flowing for his parents.