This day we fight!

[Evan Rush Rynth]

Deathlord,

Challenge is issued to you. What reasons? I got some but I will stick with just skill level. Oldest Baron, means you have skill. Never see you in the ring but I will soon.

[DUEL Corlanthis]

This Challenge is valid and may proceed.

[SwordofDeathlord]

WORM!

The GREAT and POWERFUL Deathlord acknowledges your (WORTHLESS) challenge!

One of his (LAZY and STUPID) minions will contact you to arrange a time when you may raise your PUNY sword against my AWESOMENESS! And you will be HUMBLED before ME! (And the Deathlord, of course.)


((As a note, DL's player is tied up in end of quarter labors and apologizes that a more lengthy challenge response wasn't possible. More info to follow.))

[MinionofDeathlord]

Obedient to the will and desire of the wonderful sword, the Minion shuffles her way to the Arena, tacking up a message on the worn corkboard, written upon what may or may not be a section of her own decayed green skin.

Flesh-sac,

Hail Deathlord! You have elected to pit your skills against that of my Master. For that, you are either prudent or obtuse. My Master has not yet decided which.

The Honoured Sword has declared its feelings...beware, for it shall not be kind. Cast off your flesh, embrace my Master, and you will elevate yourself beyond the pathetic limitations of your precious lifeblood! Bow down before my Master, plead for his icy caress, pledge yourself to him and be welcomed! Hail Deathlord!

In regards to this challenge, do not presume to contact my Master directly. Should you presume to approach the Mansion, I recommend a stroll in the Garden where you could forever remain. If you are not feeling so bold, then I suggest you visit us in New Haven at Minion & Minion Realty, near the shameful fountain of water-that-should-be-ice. There, we will also be quite happy to assist you in making your final preparations, should you choose to better yourself and submit to my Master.

Hail Deathlord, flesh-sac! You can do no better.

[Sinjin Fai]

::The note pinned to the cork smells suspiciously of old lady perfume and is written in a perfect girlish scrawl.::

Dear Mister Deathlord,

I am your biggest fan. Someday, I hope that my flesh rots from my body so I can join Minion & Minion Realty and be the best pile of bones I can be, designing homes with our dead brothers and sisters in mind (even if you're dead, you can still exist in luxury!). Also, your sword is really cool and I would also like a talking sword so I can achieve my lifelong goal of becoming your spunky sidekick.


Love,
Sinjin Fai
Adoring Flesh-Sac

[Evan Rush Rynth]

Stepping to the cork board, old as the sport itself, Evan’s eye drifted over a hanging piece of greenish rot, taking a moment to read the response. It is advised that his company, alive or not, is wished upon and in the Garden’s of Deathlord’s Mansion to resume the issue of the challenge. “Very well,” Evan spoke out loud. “I shall see my flesh burned away to enter another nightmare. But your choice of prudent or obtuse does not fit my right of challenge to you, for it is the fight I crave. I see now I challenged the right person.”

In a flash of blue sparks, the Elfairy vanished from sight as the last of the glitter hit the Arena floor. In a reverse effort, his body emerged from the weave, blue lightning streaking across the sky as Evan’s presence was made known in what was to be called the Garden by Deathlord’s minion.

The acidic burn of death to the sub-zero winds that blew over the horrific sculptures of ice were his first welcome sights, taking note that the ground itself was drawing the life from his body, much to the same surreal affect of the Abyss, Nine Burning Hells, and the last Titian’s realms Evan liked to frequent. Therefore, Evan allowed himself his nature of darker magi’s and watched as flesh gave way to bone, garments tattering into holes and dropping about his persona, his blade held in an icy grip of chaos.

Evan bellowed out, “I am here and still press challenge against the dead! I hear, for I have never seen you in the rings personally, you are among the best! And the best is all I fight. Choose your time and path One of Death or acquired minions!”

Evan looked towards the Mansion before wiping his skull, the last of his flesh failing to remain intact … his body that of what one would see rose from the grave. A smug clattering of jawbone rattled to replace a grin as he tossed the last fleshy life onto the hollowed Garden of Deathlord, showing his appreciation of the landscape.

[Evan Rush Rynth]

Evan taps his bone foot and waits.

[Evan Rush Rynth]

The hour was now late, a moon past the peak of night. Voices laughed, mocked, and cried in the breeze, and still no response. Uplifting the sword less hand to the dark sky, Evan peered through where his flesh once attached into muscle and skin, remembering back to the war against the living and undead almost eighteen years ago. It was a battle that did not favor the living for the dead amassed in the souls that fell upon the battle field.

Lost in memories and pre-tense, Evan was shocked when he saw a minion of dark, unclean clothing before him, the grip on his long sword held on even tighter. The undead creature loomed under his height, slumping near the shoulders and back. Fragments of the facial structure among other parts were chipped or completely missing. The minion stood there, empty eyes locked on the Elfairy.

“Do you have word from the Master of Death slave?” Evan spoke in a clear and dry tone. “Or do you waste my time?”

The creature did not answer. Therefore, Evan looked for ears and saw none, wondering if this was even a massager or something more contained in the Garden to add in the final touches of the horrors to most of the living and even a few dead entities would despise; still no response. The slumped skeleton just held its ground and seemed to stare at Evan as if the living-undead was a new sight.

Teeth drew up along side the back of his hand, ready to return the creature to the frozen ground. Speaking, Evan told the ‘thing’, “you do not serve your master with the respect of death nor would I imagine you have any form of rank within the master’s house. Be gone and stop wasting my time here that I enjoy while waiting.” The last few words sounded off as did the sound of bones breaking as the creature took Evan’s backhand at full force. Smirking, Evan about faced to the next ice sculpture to admire the twisted face it mimicked.

A text plate caught Evan’s vision on the sculpture that looked like a sealed undead warrior and he read:

“See thing in agony
Necrosis is the fate
Pins sticking through the skin
The venom now sedates
Locked in a pillory
Nowhere to be found
Screaming for your life
But no one hears a sound
Hellp Mmmeeeeee

Prepare the patients scalp
To peel away
Metal caps his ears
He’ll hear not what we say
Solid steel visor
Riveted cross his eyes
Iron staples close his jaws
So no one hears his cries

The skull beneath the skin

Now your drawn and quartered
Your bones will make the x
Symbol stands for poison
And it’s chained right to your head”

[MinionofDeathlord]

The light from Rhydin’s three moons shone brilliantly in the clear night. Especially from above, but even at street level, a dazzling display of colours was visible throughout New Haven. Reds, golds, and blues danced harmoniously in reflections from puddles and dewdrops, windows and fountain-water. In the Garden of New Haven’s Baronial Manor, the harmony reached a crescendo. Each frozen-corpse ice sculpture became a beacon of terrible exquisiteness and the Garden was filled with luminous sparkling death-prisms of unmatched beauty and accord.

Much closer to the manor, shadows flitted and darted about in nervous anticipation. An intruder in the Garden had roused the curiosity and, in some cases, the fear of ghouls and specters that inhabited the grounds. Their movements soon became agitated and then ceased altogether when the fleshless-flesh-sac struck the skeletal emissary that was sent to greet it.

Inside the Manor, which sat aglow with the Garden’s resplendent illumination, little could be seen past the thick curtains that were drawn across the windowfronts. Several moments of still silence passed, interrupted by a faint and mocking cackle from deep within the mansion. Those familiar with the source knew that the Honoured Sword was at play, but there were more pressing matters to attend to.

One of the manor’s doors opened, neither noiselessly or raucously, which guided a figure on a gently winding path from the house to the garden. The figure, perhaps having discovered that the fleshless flesh-sac would attack unprovoked, remained at a slight distance from the sword-toting skeleton. Clawlike fingers were folded within the remains of a tattered red dress. Glowing orange eyes were nearly, but not altogether, lost among the glittering lights cascading through the Garden.

From her perspective, the skeleton stood proud and almost defiant, posturing itself as worthy of a meeting with her Master while the emissary stood stupidly beside it, unsure of how to react to the strike that had seemingly broken its will along with its cheekbone.

Her voice, carried by the slightest whisper of wind, tendered welcome to the intruder.

“Hail Deathlord! If you are done enjoying the serenity of the Garden, my Master bids you enter.”

[Deathlord]

The notice of challenge found the cold baron of New Haven wandering his Garden of Souls. The frozen guests of the garden, each posed in a unique way, with their final expression of fear forever etched into their faces, brought the long dead baron an inkling of memory. Distant memories invoked faint emotions. Remnants of lives past.

The baron strode through the garden, returning to the manor through the French doors that opened outward from the sitting room. Within the sitting room lay the black sword, resting in a scabbard inlaid with gold and silver. The retired deathknight stepped to the table upon which the scabbard rested. A metal-gauntleted hand closed about the scabbard and lifted it free from its cradle. The baron eyed the scabbarded blade, his companion of so many decades. His free hand closed about the hilt of the black sword, and with a smooth, swift motion, scabbard and blade separated.

"BOOYAH!" screamed the sword into the silence of the sitting room. "Tell me it's time for some bloodletting, oh great and powerful master!" The black sword quivered with excitement and lust for action after long inactivity.

"Indeed, sword. So it would seem."

Summoned by the sounds emanating from the room, minions collected in the doorway, peering in fearfully to see what cause brought their dire lord to draw forth the runed black sword from the Abyss.

"A response is needed. Send word to my challenger. Acknowledge him in my name."

The baron held forth the black sword, speaking no word of command, and cast no meaningful look, to his minions. One scurried forward to accept the dread blade into its careful embrace. The minion cradled the sword to its dead flesh, tight as though mother to babe. Even though the black sword cut into its unliving flesh, the minion would not loosen its grasp.

"Prepare my sword. It must be ready."

With those words, the knight of the Abyss turned away and strode into the shadows, his form dispersing as he slipped deeper into the darkness.

~~~~~~

It was with a faint surprise that the baron discovered the challenger arrived in his gardens. Deathlord knew little of the one called Evan, save that his name was known in the Arena, and he carried some skill with a blade. The warlord's transformation from living unto skeletal form was an unexpected event. The baron's fiery gaze followed the warlord's movements around his icy sculptures.

How intriguing this challenger seemed. So different from the previous...living...ones. A novelty to one whose long undeath was filled with boredom. A flicker of fire flashed in the deep sockets of his eyes as the baron's thoughts turned to the challenge.

The challenger's abuse of one of the minions in the garden did not affect the baron. They were but servants after all. Their loyalty to him was matter of course. But they meant little to him if they lacked strength. Undeath freed them from the bonds of life. The chains of humanity. No weakness in them would be coddled.

"Minion," his voice, hollow and sepulchral, was not raised, but one of the many minions that served him shambled into the room with a speed that threatened to send it tumbling to the floor. Weaving from side to side on legs that carried the remnants of flesh, it awaited his command.

"Summon this warlord into the manor. He intrigues me. We shall offer him the hospitality of the manor until the time comes when we shall resolve our challenge."

~~~~~~

((The warlord and I have agred to meet at 10:00PM RST, Tuesday the 5th, to resolve this challenge.))

[DUEL Sin]

Aaaaah! If either of you haven't found a caller yet, I will call this in a heartbeat.


- Sin

[Evan Rush Rynth]

Chilled as the night air was, Evan could not feel the bonds anymore of life within his taken form of bone and rags. Rites of passage during his training with the under realms had taught him through death the lack of emotions, pain, and costly gains at the expense of hope were bluntly weak; feelings which caused the living to make untimely calls that rarely worked in their favor. His current reflection, residing in a tower shield from the adjacent ice sculpture, showed yet another minion scrambling up from the rear, the speed amazing for its failing frame.

“Hail Deathlord! If you are done enjoying the serenity of the Garden, my Master bids you enter,” the minion of rotting flesh conjured from sickly and disfigured lips. The dead creature went on as the hues of light danced about the Garden twisting in unearthly positions, souls shattering the spectrums of the beams by phasing, “Master offers you the hospitality of the manor until the time comes when the Master shall resolve the challenge.”

Raking a slender index across the side of Evan’s skull, the Warlord nodded in agreement upon considering the request since the Garden is what was dared upon him by fate of the Lord of Death, the one whom beckoned upon the cork boards of the Arena. “Lead on from this Garden and escort me as commanded by your master, minion. Maybe I shall tell him of my former flesh pile while upon these grounds as my gesture of your pace and swiftness. It will be at his discretion for you to have it since I shall grow anew upon leaving this hollowed manor,” replied Evan in a rasping voice, eyes burning with dancing blue flames but other wise empty.

And thus the Elfairy and minion proceeded to remove themselves from the souls casting musical tones into the air by means of groans, shrieking, and haunts. Evan also had to wonder what kind of hospitality the retired Deathknight had in store, knowing of other lords whom favored fire instead of ice.

[Evan Rush Rynth]

The night was utterly dark, and it was the sounds that Evan listened to in the manor. Not much else could be felt anymore as the rite started. Death was in the end, ... forgiving.

[Deathlord]

The shadows curled around the baron, welcoming him back into their embrace. Distance warped. The space between the edifice known as the Red Dragon Inn and the manor of New Haven became meaningless. Distance became a matter of will.

Other presences existed in the shadow. Creatures that were not of the prime material. Who did not exist in the confines of four dimensions. Their will, and their desire to feed, opposed those who would travel within the shadow realms. Travelers unwary of and inexperienced with the dangers of the shadow realms would be consumed, body and mind.

For the baron of New Haven, the terrors of the shadow realms were as nothing. Nightmare images might rage and taunt, but the deathknight's will was an impenetrable tower of force against their assault. The trip from the inn to the manor was a fleeting moment for the baron.

As Deathlord stepped free from the shadows, tendrils of darkness clung, seeking to pull him, and those who accompanied him, back into the shadowy landscape. Back into the embrace of those dark feeders. The tendrils carried no strength against the baron, and sloughed away like dust. One of the minions struggled against the darkness, fighting to be free of their hunger. The baron left the minion to free itself or be consumed. Weakness was not tolerated.

The baron swept out of the grand foyer of the manor. The manor was chill from long presence of the deathknight. A rime of frost coated the hallways and fixtures. A thin layer of fog clung to the floor, swirling about as the party moved through the manor. They journeyed through wide doors, and down into the bowels of the manor. Into a cistern chamber, and past a wine cellar, and then into deeper cellars and chambers added and enlarged to suit the purposes of the manor's current tenant.

Finally, they arrived at a large circular chamber, carved from the womb of the earth itself. One sensitive to such things might feel the deep life which thrummed in the walls of the chamber. And the wrongness of the diagram carved into the flesh of the floor. The symbols etched and scarred into the stone fought against the living stone itself. The eye turned away from gazing upon those runes.

Candles with pale tallow cornered the diagrammed circle. The baron pointed and his minions carried the warlord's figure into the circle. Cold, black fire burned the warlord, but did not yet consume. The minions spread the form of the one called Evan out in the circle. Bonds of black flame sprung up, chaining the man within the confines of the diagram. Then, in turn, each candle alit with black, shadowy flame.

The official, the one called Jaycynda, was escorted to the far side of the chamber from the baron. Minions, and other guests of the manor, circled the diagram, all giving their own witness for the ritual about to take place.

When all was in readiness, the baron stepped forward. His fiery gaze was locked upon the warlord's form. Soulfire burned on his flesh, and the man's body twisted in torment.

"Warlord, you have asked for unlife. And unlife I shall grant you." The deathknight stood at the edge of the circle, a gauntleted hand raised up and enshrouded in dark fire. "Know then, that the pain you feel, that you struggle against, is the pain of your life energy fighting against unlife. Give in to the pain, and know peace. Know unlife. Free from pain, and loss. Free from morality and guilt." The black flame expanded from the candles, and grew in a line, reaching out to each candle in turn to close the circle. "But know also this. The longer you resist the pain, the longer it takes for the soulfire to consume you, the stronger your form in unlife will be.

"Give in quickly, and become like unto one of my lesser minions." A metal gauntleted hand swept around the room, gesturing towards minions that cowered at the furtherest corners of the chamber. Mindless ghouls and zombies that could barely speak, and knew little but hunger. "Fight. Hold out against the pain, and grow in power.

"The choice becomes yours, warlord. Your strength in undeath is yours to decide. Give in to the pain, and know peace. The peace of the mindless and craven. Fight, and know power." As he spoke the soulfire grew, spreading across the warlord's flesh, and the agony of the transformation began.

"Show unto me your strength, warlord."

[DUEL Jaycy]

The night had to have been a dream. It couldn’t have been the churlish, reeking nightmare she remembered. Duty brought her to the Arena immediately following her own failed challenge; duty saw her venture into the hell of witnessing the rebirth of a ‘child’ of the Baron of New Haven.

Who knew a duty as simple as officiating over a challenge match would lead her to it?

She called the traditional greeting, a welcome to the denizens and observers of the Arena and an announcement of the eve’s reason for the pomp. A traditional question, so often asked and never – well, at least never as long as she’d been able to remember – been responded to in any other way than the unqualified affirmative.

“Warlord, you have issued challenge for the right to the Barony of New Haven. Do you wish to press this challenge tonight?”

It had been usual enough, his aye. Even his discussion of why had been ordinary. He had made a request, via message, and in the failure of an answer he felt he should take the answer himself in the taking of the Barony. He had asked for sponsorship to issue challenge to the Overlady, Aya Hayashibara. He had, also, never received a response to the request. In that, he felt, the surest way then to gain the sponsorship was to become a Baron – the Overlady could not refuse issuance from such a person.

That was when it all went awry.

The Baron had never received the request, he claimed. And so it was proved, moments later, as the culpable minion burst into a brilliant, punishing flame after admitting the withholding of the request notice. She stood by, a mostly-silent witness to the turn of events.

For Deathlord had proved to be a magnanimous Baron, seeking the contents of the request before allowing the match to continue. He soon granted the request, but for a price. For with a man such as he, there was always a price. It proved to be a simple, acceptable price.

Evan’s life.

Evan was to free himself from the confines of flesh and vitae and be reborn in the bones of a minion worthy of the lord. In a short time, too short to Jaycy’s mind, Evan acquiesced. A burst of black fire and cold death rushed from Deathlord’s hand and engulfed the Warlord. The man crumbled into a pile at the floorboards, his loved ones helplessly gaping at the unexpected shift.

A horrified and stunned Danu raised a hand to the lord, striking his bony cheek in agitation; the minions and the Baron’s own sword desired to ruin her fleshy body for the insult. He stayed their hands (and edges), however, rather inviting her to witness the conclusion of the ritual. Moments later, the invitation was extended to the redhead.

Jaycy accepted quickly, citing her duty. As a murderer herself, she was no stranger to death and dark ceremonies. As the official, she felt a need to witness and chronicle so important an event – a dueler giving his life for something seemingly fleeting, sponsorship in a challenge against the current Overlady. Her swift agreement proved to be a mistake.

She disappeared from the Arena with the Baron and his entourage, graced by her capacity as witness to travel by magical teleport. The bowels of New Haven’s manor were their destination; she found herself in a sparse chamber where the acoustics sung and the circular walls focused gazes onto the centerpiece.

She was granted a place of honor amongst the circle; in the front row and perfectly opposite a pedestrian door. Minions swarmed around her, surging and receding like the tide in the space, almost but never quite touching her. More than once she caught the envious glares and hisses of “flesh sac!” from the throng behind her.

***

She finally staggered from the Manor, dazed and drugged after hours of witnessing demented, depraved magic. The early light of morning shone a false promise of beauty to her bloodshot eyes. She gazed unseeing at the wonder laid in offer before her.

Jaycy tripped and then fully stumbled, dropping to her knees. Hands scraped at the rough cobblestones of the road, and early passersby on their way to work and various assorted errands stole furtive, nervous glances at first her and then the hulking building in the backdrop. The rise to her feet was slow, methodical, and over-careful. She drifted, an aimless wisp of a tourist through the city. It was several days before she had recovered enough to chronicle the events of the night into a written passage for the Arena’s corkboard.

In regards to the Challenge match between Warlord Evan Rush Rynth and the Baron of New Haven, Deathlord:

These days, it is not often that a challenge is a matter of life and death. In fact, it is practically unheard of. However, this match was a matter of death – or rather, of death and rebirth. Evan sought sponsorship to challenge the Overlady, Aya, from the Baron Deathlord. Deathlord agreed after finally receiving the request, but demanded a price – Evan’s life and the withdrawal of his challenge to the Baron.

Evan agreed.

I have to ask myself why Evan would value a challenge to the Overlady so much; while there is property, a title and professional accolades that accompany the winning of such a challenge those benefits are transitory and in the end, very temporary.

I hope, in the future, those younger duelers who see notice of these results carefully ponder what would bring a man to agree to it and understand it is personal feeling and not a general commentary on the importance of the title of Overlord that caused Evan to agree to this. I hope, further, that no one sees the need to attach such meaning to the Overlordship or any other title. This is a sport.

Should this become commonplace, I fear for the future of the Arena and its patrons.

Sincerely,
Jaycynda Ashleana