The Phenomenal Fracas (GBS2G6) [Round Five: The Ambitus Phenomenon]

Originally posted on MSPA by whoosh!.

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In a study, somewhere in the eternal sway of the universes, a man sat in his favourite armchair by the fire and sipped red wine. Each movement was perfectly precise in its motion, a sharp contrast to his slumped position within the chair. The crackling fire blazed at his back and draped the rest of him in shadow. The silhouette of a sharp suit was still obvious, even if you had to overlook the ragged sleeves and other telltale signs of wear.

His eyes flicked over to a corner of the room, where the rich decorations of the walls behind him had progressed into peeling paint, general mold and decay, and a colossal mirror shard that reached to the lofty ceiling. In it flashed a thousand images in the blink of eye, swept away and replaced with equal speed that should have made it impossible for a human to process.

Fortunately, The Prestidigitator wasn't quite human. That kind of mess was far too inefficient for his liking.

He leaned forward deeper into the gloom, as if his interest had been piqued by a particular scene, but he slumped backwards almost immediately. He sharply chucked the remains of the wine over the carpet.

"A vacuum cleaner. And roughly a myriad of bearded swordsmen."

On the carpet, the wine evaporated into a cloud of brilliant butterflies, but the Prestidigitator was clearly not interested. He covered his face with his hands.

"Where has the elegance gone? What day is this when a damn cleaning implement may walk all over a Grandmaster? What of flair? And a skill? And a cock-sure glint in the eye as a gladiator stand over his fallen prize, then turns his face to the overseer of the match for the final confirmation?" There were murmurs of dissent around him, disembodied but clearly sharing his worries.

One whispered more clearly. In the background, the butterflies withered and fizzled in the heat, before blackening and vanishing without ever being noticed. The Grandmaster sat up.

"Host one? Why, the prospect is certainly alluring. To host a proper show, with all the glint and charm of a true performance sounds like fun. But I'm afraid that would require too much effort. To pick out, among universes of elegant and stunning acts, merely eight? I may as well challenge the Director to boxing," he drawled. Bored, he snapped the fingers from where his empty wine glass dangled. A flash of shadow and a silver switch blade had replaced it. He absently admired the gleam while the voices chattered. Suddenly, another separate one rang out clearly.

The Prestidigitator froze. "The - the Monitor? He has leftovers?"

A silence dropped into being and stretched out, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire.

"So I can just choose some vaguely correct combatants from there? No treacherous sieving of the universes?"

Mild assent.

He slid from his chair in a blur, smashing the switch blade into the glass with a deafening crash. Millions of minuscule chards ricocheted and swirled over the room, a lethal tidal wave of crystal. The light was blinding, but the Prestidigitator was somehow still wrapped in the gloom.

"Then what are we waiting for?!" He roared, booming above the cacophony, his hands and gaze raised to the stars blazing over the room.

"Let's make this a <font size="4">Phenomenal Fracas!"</font>

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TO REMIND YOU THAT WE HAVE RULES AND STANDARDS TO OUR MADNESS:

You know how this works. Eight players, eight characters, seven rounds, one winner in a fight to the death. The written word is your weapon of choice, with the most ineffective writer dropping out each round. If you still need to reiterate on the rules then you can find the original ones and a good read in this thread.

The rules for reserving are the same as usual, and they will be respected for two hours. Possibly more, if the other players are willing to honour it. No chain reserves and all that jazz.

CHARACTER SUBMISSION FORM:

So you want to join a Grand Battle? Fill this in and your wish will (likely) be granted. Please note that although the Prestidigitator would prefer combatants with a bit of flair and elegance to them, that doesn't necessarily mean that's what he's going to get. I'm a aware that some people have premade characters for this, and that it's likely they won't fit that theme. Don't worry about it. It's just more fodder for his moaning.

Name: The name your character goes by.
Gender: Male, Female, N/A, or Other. Sometimes if they're N/A or Other it might help to just choose a set of pronouns to refer to them by anyway.
Font colour: For post differentiation and because it looks pretty. Everyone's should be different, but #400040 is taken. Background colours are acceptable, but from past experience I'd say it's better to stay away from the shiny non-standard fonts. Likely as not they won't even show up for most people.
Race: The species of your character. This being a Grand Battle, very nearly anything goes. Sentience and some basic motor functions would be good though.
Weapon: What does your character fight with? Describe it for us.
Abilities: Do they have any special powers, specialised abilities or even magic? Tell us about it. This will give us some idea of what they're capable of, though as per usual it shouldn't really be an exhaustive list of what they can do, merely a guide. It leaves more room for you to get creative with it. (It should be noted that this part will normally be the main reason they were picked for a fight to the death.)
Description: How would you describe their appearance? How do they act? What are their motivations?
Biography: What has happened to them in the time leading up to their disappearance and entry into the Phenomenal Fracas?

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

MrGuy: Ripper Blackmask - #800000 (profile)
Anomaly: Syvex - #400080 (profile)
NotTheAuthor: Miq - #404000 (profile) LOST IN THE VOID
SleepingOrange: La Aguja del Dolor and High Priest Muriegro - #666666 (profile)
MalkyTop: Eureka Finch - #543948 (profile)
Wojjan: Riko (Scientist #31) - #804060 (profile) TORN APART BY THE RIPPER
granolaman: Tamerlane - #BF8040 (profile) STABBED, DECOMPOSED AND HATLESS
Ixcalibur: Thatix - #BF0000 (profile) ENCASED IN GLASS

SpoilerShow

DISCLAIMER: Opinions expressed by the Prestidigitator have no bearing of those of the author. Namely, that Eximo Pulvis isn't awesome. Only a Grandmaster could not love that guy.

ATTENTION!

The most up to date scheming in all of this grand battle can be found here, hot off the press of cunning minds.

Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.

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Name: Ripper Blackmask
Race: Human
Text Colour: #800000

Weapons: Platinum cutlass with sculpted pearl hilt, gem-encrusted gold-plated gun, silver-plated jetpack (engraved with skulls)
Ability: Due to the Endorphic Core, Blackmask is able to convert treasure directly into power (namely, an increase in the user's abilities: a mage, for example, would be able to cast more powerful spells; an otherwise-ordinary human, such as Blackmask, would simply become more athletically able, and after a long period of treasure-converting, Blackmask is considerably stronger and more agile than average, though not yet superhuman). The power derived, and length of use, is proportional to the value of the treasure; very valuable objects are capable of creating a permanent power boost, whereas more common baubles only give a quick boost. However, the cost of the transmutation is high; the object must be destroyed to convert the "potential happiness" from one source to the next.

Description: Large build. Wears a red longcoat with a Jolly Roger on the back, black pants, and a detailed mask carved out of jet (Eyeholes, a constant scowl, and small fangs displayed around the 'mouth' are all carved into it, outlined with silver to make them more visible).

When going after a target, Blackmask displays variable amounts of mercy; generally, small merchants and merciful pirates will survive with some of their stores, whereas titans of industry and vicious pirates are lucky if they don't die. Talking to non-targets, Blackmask is usually gruff towards unless they're "business contacts" or have "proven themselves". Blackmask is also more than a little greedy, which is what lends the Endorphin Core its particular source of power.

Biography: Orphaned at a young age, Adrian O'Gearailt had no choice but to work in a poorly-regulated factory in order to earn a living. Most of the children were injured or died, and Adrian grew up to hate those of higher social standing; nonetheless, the situation was inescapable. Inescapable, that is, until February 8th, 1824, when Adrian overheard the boss discussing a new technology known as the Endorphic Core, a device capable of changing happiness directly into power.

The sheer power that he described was not lost on the 14-year-old Adrian, who immediately decided that the only possible course of action was to steal it. Within ten minutes, the boss had been overpowered and the location of the device discovered; by the end of the day, he was dead, his device and cash on hand stolen along with his private zeppelin. Adrian was only able to evade the law so long, however, and so created and donned a fearsome mask to become unrecognizable. This was the rise of Ripper Blackmask.

Roughly 12 years later, after slowly building from petty theft to full on sky piracy, Blackmask had a heavily customized zeppelin, a full crew, and several signature weapons. Then, on what was supposed to be a routine theft, the scourge of Ripper Blackmask disappeared in a flash of light. The crew continued their work with a new captain who adopted the appellation (though this was not discovered until his deathbed confession in 1878), but the true Blackmask was never seen again.

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

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Name: Thatix
Gender: Identifies as female
Font color: #BF0000
Race: Literal fireflies with a hive mind.
Abilities: A vast range of fire spells at her disposal.
Description: Thatix is a swarm of one hundred burning fireflies. Thatix typically shapes herself into a rough approximation of her previous self, though very little detail is conveyed. With careful examination you might able to make out that Thatix had long hair and wore a long dress, or potentially a cloak. Thatix was not very mentally stable when she was alive. Her death and rebirth as a swarm of fireflies only made her things worse. She is extremely unstable. She speaks in half-riddles and non-sequiturs, becoming very angry over seemingly insignificant things.
Biography: Thatix was a dark and powerful sorceress who craved dominion over the lands of Itharia. However the council of Elders refused to accept her into their ranks. Angered by this Thatix began amassing forces to bring an end to the council. Once she had gathered enough skilled magi she made her move and triggered a war that ravaged the land. Some places were left barren, arid and empty their magic essence drained to power the bitter struggle between the rival forces of wizards. Other places, sites of great battles were drenched in the excess energy of this magical war. These places took on a sinister life of their own. It was at the climactic battle of the war, deep in the woods of Mithaia that Thatix was finally slain. Unfortunately the council was not quite as thorough as they could have been. Though she died her dark essence remained, infecting the land where she had fallen. Though little came of it at first the magical fallout from eventually corrupted a swarm of fireflies, imbuing them with the mind of the sorceress. The fireflies literally blazed into life as Thatix was reborn. Her mind now more fragmented than ever she swore bloody revenge upon the council of elders. Fortunately for them and the residents of Itharia she was suddenly and unceremoniously taken away to participate in a Grand Battle.

Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.

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I express interest despite being in several other battles already. I guess I'll try some brainstorming and see if something happens or not.

Originally posted on MSPA by Anomaly.

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Name: Syvex

Gender: M

Race: Shadow Serpent

Color: #400080

Weapons/Abilities: Other than some of his physical abilities, Syvex's skills mostly make use of the dark energy that is produced by his body, his physical attacks being limited to his claws and teeth. Additionally, he is able to climb walls up to 90 degrees, but he is unable to move across ceilings. Despite his lack of eyes, Syvex can sense his environment within a certain range using the dark energy. His "vision" is rather weak in bright environments, having a sensory radius of 10 feet in sunlight, but over 100 feet in total darkness. Another ability is to channel dark energy for various projectile attacks. However, Syvex's most potent skill is his ability to open portals between shadows and other dark places, though still restricted to his sensory range. These portals can only exist in the dark, and instantly dissipate if they are exposed to enough light. If Syvex happens to be partially through a portal when it is destroyed, then he will, naturally, be bisected. However, he is able to survive this, and can rejoin with the rest of his body, or regenerate the lost part after a certain amount of time. This makes him rather tough to kill, but if he is damaged beyond regeneration, he will die.

Description:

SpoilerShow

Syvex is a large, snake-like creature, with a length of about 10 feet and a width of one foot. His scales are a dark gray color, glowing with a dark aura, purple-gray in color. He has two arms a foot behind his head, and two more another foot back. Syvex has spiked ridges running down his forearms up to his clawed hands, which each have three fingers and a thumb. His head lacks eyes, and its only visible feature is his large mouth, almost perpetually locked in a smile which reveals his jagged teeth. The inside of his mouth is a dark purple color, with a long tongue which comes to a point, unlike that of a snake. Spiked ridges run down his back as well, starting at the back of his head and ending at the tail. Personality-wise, Syvex is generally cunning and sometimes untrustworthy, but he is not genuinely uncaring. He will protect others he sees as allied with him, as long as doing so would not endanger his own life. Additionally, he usually ignores commands and coordinated efforts when working in a team, preferring to do what he believes will accomplish his goals by his own methods.

Biography: The year was 2073. The world had been ravaged by the warring between nations, who endlessly fought over the few remaining resources on the planet. Weapons development was endlessly escalating, an arms race greater than any in history. There would be no end to the conflict until one side had been completely obliterated, and all there would be to show would be a lifeless husk of the world that once existed. Traditional weaponry was becoming obsolete: each side could continually match the other in destrucive force. An endless stalemate, resulting only in further razing of the land.

The Stratonian Alliance commissioned Interstice Laboratories to create a line of biological weapons; super-soldiers that could decimate their enemies and bring an end to the war. The laboratories set upon a series of experiments to genetically enhance humans, all of which ended in failure, the test subjects often dying horribly. After two years of these experiments, it was finally decided that humans would be insufficient for their projects. All logs of a large period of time afterward were locked out to all except those with level 10 clearance, and therefore it is unknown as to what happened in that year or so.

Logs resume after the blackout period. Interstice Laboratories began work on a new line of super-soldiers in 2076, code-named the "Shadow Serpents". The completion of the prototype, subject 384, dubbed "Syvex", coincided with the return of normal log entries. The SS line was created specifically for combat in the night, when humans would be much more vulnerable. With an army of Serpents, it was thought that they could effortlessly wipe out their enemies. However, when they put Syvex into combat situations, things didn't exactly go according to plan. Syvex had the combat abilities he had been designed for, but he ignored orders, doing whatever he pleased on his own volition. Sometimes he was helpful to the Alliance; sometimes he was a great hindrance.

After a month of field testing, Interstice Laboratories recalled Syvex and placed him into stasis due to his "flaws". They went on to improve his design; every subsequent Shadow Serpent had no free will and followed orders unflinchingly. Over the next decade, they overran the opposing armies, killing the nations' leaders and ultimately ending the conflict. The Stratonian Alliance had secured the last resources on the charred remains of the planet. The entire global population had dropped below one million during the war, and the sun was blotted out by an eternal cloud of dust.

Ten more years passed, with Syvex forgotten in a seldom-entered back corner of the facility. In the year 2097, however, a wayward biological experiment destroyed the laboratory's power core, deactivating the stasis tube. After power was restored, several scientists entered the stasis room to discover, much to their horror, that the tube was empty. He was never found.

Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.

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ISS2 reject dropping by.
Can I get a reserve while I slap some more words on my character?

Originally posted on MSPA by Kaitostrike.

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Name: Lianne Beurard
Gender: Female
Font color: A nice blue. (#4040FF)
Race: Human
Weapon: None, technically, but she does keep various things in her bag. See "Abilities".

Abilities: She has very powerful telekinesis, including the ability to lift herself up, move large objects, and to rip chunks of stuff out of the ground (very good for fight scenes). However, these psychic powers have a large tole on her mind. Shortly after activating her powers, she suffers from temporary amnesia, generally forgetting everything that had just happened. This has the effect of her not knowing she has powers.

Description:
Lianne is a 17 year old girl, who wears a suit/dress hybrid that comes off as out of place as opposed to fashionable. She has long, blonde hair, on top of which rests an odd beret. She wears soft pink gloves and generally keeps her "carry bag" with her.

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Biography: Born to an eccentric set of parents, Lianne is what you would call a rich inherent. Set to inherit her mother's banking company, she is, to put it bluntly, aristocratic. She has the manners of a goddess, and the looks to back it up. She even seems charismatic when first talking to her, but she quickly stumbles when the conversation goes anything beyond formal. As such, she has no friends, and keeps to herself. At the fragile age of 8, her Irish father died, leaving the French mother to run the company as well as raise their only child. Up until this point, she had been spoiled rotten, but the incident caused her mother to attempt to harden the child; to no avail. To this day, Lianne, while not necessarily spoiled rotten, is still accustomed to pampering.

Originally posted on MSPA by Not The Author.

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Against my better judgment.

Name: Miq (Pronounced "meek")

Gender: Not applicable. Let's just make this easier on everyone and call it a she.

Font colour: #404000 is about the color of an Organ.

Race: Mimic

SpoilerShow

An artificially created species, Mimics are composed of two distinct elements - the "Organ" and the "Shell."

Each Mimic's Organ is relatively identical, varying primarily in size. The Organ is tar black with the consistency of putty and coated with a slimy layer of digestive fluid. The Organ is fairly adhesive and capable of contorting itself into various shapes, most frequently forming flagella used for slithering around and latching on to things. Mimics can also envelop objects in their Organ for safekeeping, and are often given valuables to guard in this manner.

The Shell acts as an exoskeleton for the Mimic, and is fused to the Organ during the production process. Depending on the manner in which the Mimic is created, the Shell may become more malleable, granting the Mimic greater mobility. As they are frequently used to guard valuables, Mimics are often found fused to safes or cabinets. However, the form a Shell is relatively unlimited, and they are occasionally found in books, bags, car trunks, computer casings, and pianos. It depends on the customer. Once removed from its shell, the Mimic's Organ crystallizes, killing the Mimic and making a rather fanciful glassy sculpture.

I say the Shell is relatively unlimited, as there is one major factor that determines whether or not an object may be used as a shell. All Mimics must, without exception, be able to smile. No one is sure why; the reason was lost long ago with the original schematic. A Mimic's shark-like teeth form during the bonding process between the Organ and Shell, and exude the same digestive fluid as does the Organ. They are a permanent feature of the Mimic and invariably very slightly off-white.

Mimics are omnivorous, and can dissolve any organic material given enough time. They require intermittent sustenance to maintain or expand their Organ. Their digestive fluids double as the single best known metal polish available on the market.

Though lacking most sensory organs, Mimics are highly sensitive to their immediate surroundings, and can see greater distances via echolocation. They also have rudimentary senses of smell and taste, largely to determine whether or not something is food, loot, or trash.

Most Mimics are made to order, and are not exactly cheap. They are incredibly loyal and protective of their owners and belongings, and while Mimics are difficult to rile up, they will not hesitate to brutally maim any perceived threat.

Usually.

Weapon: Teeth, flagella, digestive fluids.

Abilities: Extraordinarily sensitive to changes in her immediate environment. Echolocation. Can produce high-pitch soundwaves. Limited vocabulary. Flexible Shell. Minor Empathy. Can transfer her Organ between Shells, though the discarded husk retains all the old teeth. Instinctively knows what works as a shell and what doesn't.

Description:

SpoilerShow

At first glance, Miq is your typical Mimic - her Organ is about the size of a basketball, and she currently resides in an aluminum trash can. She's accumulated a few trinkets in her travels; a few silver coins, a broken wristwatch, a particularly large mirror shard or two. Nothing particularly useful in a battle despite her considerable residence at the Lower New York Advanced Magitechnical Institute.

Once you get past her physical aspects, though, she's noticeably different. Miq is very curious, always looking for something or somewhere new to see. It's likely the reason she left the campus in the first place. Paradoxically, she's a bit of a coward - since she was never Bound to an owner, she has no one to protect but herself, and tends to avoid people who appear threatening.

She's still attracted to shiny objects, though.

Biography:

SpoilerShow

Miq was "born" as the result of the senior Alchemy project of "Mad" Madeline Ironguard, Jordan "Socket" Thunderhead, and Lilith Vivian - to construct a Mimic that is not restricted to a single shell. The successful creation of a mimic alone is no small feat, and certainly would've netted them a place in the Alchemical industry on its own. These students, however, were toeing the madness/genius line, and managed to develop a working prototype using various probably-illicit chemicals and vaguely-sinister rituals. But then, that's college.

The trio had always worked above and beyond, and upon graduation were almost immediately snatched up by various corporations. Miq, who'd never actually been Bound to any of them, became one of the campus oddities. There'd be word of a phantom locker that was never in the same place from day to day. Backpacks would inexplicably disappear and turn up elsewhere.

One time she got into a toilet. That was fun.

Eventually, Miq managed to hitch a ride in a suitcase to the Upper New York Residence Sector, though whether or not this was intentional is debatable. From there, she traveled about, moving from place to place by hitching a ride in unassuming victims' various carrying cases, or by waddling around in discarded plastic bags and various refuse receptacles. She eventually learned that if you are a trash can, people will throw food in you, without paying enough attention to notice the teeth, or that you weren't there five minutes earlier. Also because they tend to be attract birds and rodents.

Miq's got a soft spot for raccoon.

Originally posted on MSPA by granolaman.

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Last spot be mine!

Name: Tamerlane

Gender: Male

Font color: Sand.

Race: Human, Manifest

Weapon: He carries a katana, but it holds no special properties and he typically uses his ability to attack instead. There's enough dust embedded in his clothes for him to be able to create small items or sand blasts.

Abilities: Tamerlane can exert power over dust and sand, using only his mind to shape and move it into any form he desires. Of course, this power is limited to the amount of material he has at his disposal. Furthermore, he must continue concentrating on his creations/attacks, or else the dust will instantly lose it's shape. The dust takes its toll on him when he's not careful and he often ends up flaying his exposed skin whenever he moves it too fast. He also possesses an uncanny tracking ability, honed over his many years as a bounty hunter. Tamerlane is trained with his sword, but will only resort to it if his sand powers are restricted.

Description: Tamerlane is tall, dark, and deadly. His skin is mostly covered by loose clothing, but where it's visible it's been tanned and roughened from exposure. A brown, wide collared duster coat hides most of his body and a wide brimmed hat obscures his head. The right arm of the coat is torn apart and a heavily bandaged arm can be seen through the holes. Tamerlane has never shown a sense of humor nor has he shown any remorse for the frequent deaths of his quarry. When he's tracking a bounty he is restless and focused; when he fights, he is cold-blooded and merciless. He has little regard for the lives of those weaker than him and cares only for his own well-being. He has only met one man he believes is stronger than him.

Biography:

SpoilerShow

Haret tumbled down another dune Oh god, I think he saw me, please don't let him have seen me. His heart still hadn't stopped it's mile-a-minute panic. The rumor's of the Desert King's tracker were true, all of them. He just massacred them without even touching them! We'll never recover, our resistance is finished, I'm finished if I can't get out of here!

The young resistance fighter picked himself up out of the sand and began running again. His strides seemed unnaturally long, with each step landing ten feet away per stride. I can't keep this up he thought as he rounded another dune, trying to keep below the horizon. My manifest power might've saved me for the moment, but there's no way I can keep this up for long. Why does he have to have sand? Of all the places for a dust shaper to manifest, why'd it have to be in the middle of the bloody desert?! Haret rounded another dune and stopped. Maybe it's safe to take a peek, maybe I've lost him Haret slowly crawled up and poked his head over the sand.

A monstrous worm of sand reared up before him, bellowing a fearsome roar. On top of what could be assumed as the beast's head, a dark figure stood, blocking out the sun and glaring down at Haret with impossibly intense eyes. “Noo!” Haret attempted to run, but the dark man had already refocused his power. The worm dissolved and its sand buried Haret's legs before he could take his second step. “You've got the wrong guy!” Haret attempted to turn to face his captor, but his position was too awkward to make out anything but his shadow. “I'm innocent!”

Haret could hear the man's footsteps as he approached “Haret, land skimmer,” a voice rose from behind his back. “You and your group were identified by the King's diviners the moment your fire starter failed to detonate the Academy.” The footsteps stopped; the man was directly behind Haret.

Haret twisted and struggled at the sand, but he only managed to sink himself deeper. “Alright! I surrender! Just let me live, please!” Tears started streaming from his eyes. The dark man knelt down and spoke directly in his ear.

“The King has requested that the entire terrorist cell be executed on sight. Your body will be brought back and hung on the palace gate to serve as an example to others who would dare cross him.” The man stood back up and began focusing. Sand began whirling up from the ground and gathering in his hand.

“You're a monster! A monster that slaughters people just because a false king wants them gone!” Haret's tears were flowing freely from his eyes.

“Perhaps you're right, Haret, perhaps I am a monster.” The sand finished moving and Haret could see the shadow of the man now holding an executioner's sword. “Or maybe,” the shadow raised its axe over its head, “you're just a pathetic excuse for a human.” The shadow of the sword swung down foreshadowing the path of its material counterpart. Haret shut his eyes, and cringed from his imminent demise.

A light flashed, and Haret felt a clump of sand hit his back. That wasn't death… He opened his eyes and saw the desert once more, but the shadow of the dark man was nowhere to be seen…

Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.

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Name: Eureka Finch. Yes, there were a few jokes.
Gender: Ho hum, female.
Font colour: Yum yum, grapes
Race: Whoops, just plain human!
Weapon: Eureka doesn't really carry around much in weapons. Well, not typical weapons. She uses clothes for weapons.
Abilities: Eureka is sort of a 'clothesmage' or 'textilourge...' though 'textilomancy' sounds cooler. Basically, she can control cloth. Yes, she is able to strangle people by contracting their own clothing. Thing is, she can only control what she's touching. She can stretch or shrink or fold cloth, but usually she doesn't try to completely change its shape as that would most likely involve unweaving and weaving the cloth and it's pretty hard to control individual threads. Instead, she just twist cloth around into a vaguely weapon-ish shape. She can also change a cloth's color, but that really isn't much use. She also knows how to knit and sew. She has been trained to use a gun but finds them unbearably loud.
Description: Eureka is thin and lanky, her hair a muddy brown that is chopped short around her neck. It tends to look quite windswept. Her eyes are a pretty bland brown as well. She's not exactly the cleanest girl around, but that sort of thing happens when you're running around hiding from various people. She wears a scarf that is usually striped brown and maroon, a gray sweatshirt, sweatpants and fingerless gloves. Her shoes are just really old sneakers. She's actually pretty plain-looking. In her pockets she carries yarn and knitting needles and a large roll of cloth bandages. Eureka tends to go through life thinking that pretty much everything is a severe annoyance to deal with and that she would really like it if everybody just left her alone. Like her appearance, her personality is rather bland, possibly like that of a limp fish. She goes with the philosophy that if nobody bothers her, she doesn't bother them. Sometimes she doesn't bother even if somebody is bothering her. She tends to talk to people as though they had disturbed her from a very important mug of beer. Not exactly cross, but very very inconvenienced. Still, she's quite a fast thinker and an even faster sprinter. She probably would hesitate to attack back, but barring any exits, she will.
Biography: Most people got control over fire or water or metal. Eureka somehow got stuck with cloth. She was employed in the United Service for Liberty but, not judged to be as important as genius scientists or great sleuths or fire manipulators, she was stuck in a made-up-on-the-spot department that most people didn't even know about during the ten or so years she worked in it. It was, predictably, the Cloth Department. She was never clear what she was supposed to be doing, (cloth investigations?) so just sat at her desk and did sudoku. It was very boring. At one point, she decided that the government was made up of idiots and that she was sick of doing nothing and so quit. It wasn't easy, for even an unimportant, almost unmanned department had access to a bunch of government secrets and even after allowing her to quit, they insisted on keeping tabs on her and essentially stalking her (at least that's what it felt like to her). She attempted to run off and hide, often tucking herself away in dark alleys as she waited to make sure nobody was following her, but usually had to keep moving around as someone was always close behind. She found protection and surprising company in the Greater Alliance of Cloth Kingpins. Apparently she wasn't the only one who manipulated cloth. The group was very small, though it still had the right connections to keep her hidden. The Cloth Kingpins plucked her out of the streets because of her prowess with cloth manipulation. They were mostly made up of three wealthy men who were a bit eccentric. Their official badges were clothespins with little crowns on them. They had her help out with smuggling cloth, keeping her in the dark as to why this cloth was special. After lugging around heavy crates for a few more years, she finally found out that what she had been carrying around were actually bombs being sent to various well-known leather factory owners. She then decided that everybody was just plain stupid and quit again and got the GACK and the USL after her. She withdrew from everybody as best as she could and alley-hopped around before being suddenly whisked away to something that would be quite a large mild annoyance.

Aaand here're some doodles of stuff and her using powers and stuff.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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Name: La Aguja del Dolor and High Priest Muriegro

Gender: None and Male

Font colour: Middle Grey (#666666)

Race: Pincushion and Human

Abilities: High Priest Muriegro is a normal human being; he knows how to use a knife and a blowpipe, and is an expert crafter of a myriad of poisons from the plants and animals of the Amazon jungle. The only reason he or anyone in his sect are alive is because they are expert survivalists. For the most part, he is fairly unremarkable.

La Aguja Del Dolor is sentient and aware of its surroundings, which is unusual for a pincushion. It gives anyone who holds it (and that it gives its permission to) the ability to channel powerful magic; while it is capable of slinging fireballs or summoning demons, it tends to prefer and is much better at subtler magic; it specializes in mind and body control, illusions, and many other less flashy sorts of magic. While it can use its powers of its own volition, it is much less powerful than if its powers are being used by a host. It also has the ability to teleport short distances, but can typically not bring its host with it. It frequently uses a very minor form of illusion magic to create a gravelly whisper in the minds of those it wishes to communicate with, but it cannot actually speak, or even move much beyond its teleportation abilities or use of magic. It can use pins and needles that have been stuck in it like limbs, but not particularly effectively.

Description: Muriegro is a tall, gaunt man; his skin is on the dark end of hispanic, and his cheekbones are high and pronounced over his square jaw. He might have been attractive without the life of hardship and self-denial he had lived; the fact that his mouth is crudely stitched shut with thick, bloodstained twine is also somewhat offputting to most. He wears a hooded cloak that might once have been black or may have always been the dingy grey it is now; the hood is typically up, concealing most of his face save for the stitched lips, and its hems are all embroidered with symbols that make the reader's eyes water. His posture is slouched and defeated and his limbs are bony, but he is still quick and lithely strong. A cord around his belt is hung with dozens of pouches and vials of varying sizes, and the insides of his sleeves are lined with pockets, most of which are full of God-knows-what. On his left hip is a sheath holding an eighteen-inch, curved knife; on his right is an ostentatious pouch made of embroidered leather which holds Laguja.

Laguja itself is a fist-sized pincusion, made of some fine, grey fabric. It is typically stuck with some three dozen pins of various sizes and quality; unlike the nearly-ubiquitous tomato pincushions, it is embroidered with legs that give it the appearance of a spider: a spool sewn onto the front of it forms a sort of head, which is adorned with ornamental, but still very sharp, fangs. Its personality is vicious, vindictive, and manipulative; it seeks dominance of those around it, and it will not hesitate to form alliances that it feels will bring it more power or influence.

Biography: Muriegro was a member of a small doomsday cult that based themselves in a secluded corner of the Amazon jungle. The cult itself was founded by the members of an undiscovered village of fishers who accidentally uncovered a statue that had been occupied by a nearly-dead god whose previous worshippers had been routed by a rival religion. Upon its discovery, the god made itself known to the villagers and demanded they worship it; not being accustomed to being spoken to be statues, they acquiesced.

The god itself volunteered no name, and the villagers cum cultists never bothered giving one to it or themselves. Their god demanded obedience and that they spread its influence, and promised that once it had regained its powers it would destroy the world that had turned its back on thegod and its followers. It promised that its followers would be put at the top of the order of the new world it created, and it promised that its most obedient servants would be made gods in their own right.

Muriegro was not the leader of the cult, nor was he the one who originally discovered the statue. He was simply a particularly devout member, and a notably adept naturalist and poisoncrafter. As his god's influence grew, so grew its power; it fed off the belief and fear of its followers and those they subjugated, and it eventually became powerful enough to condense much of its divine presence into a powerful weapon: the pincushion was similarly unnamed, but it became known to those few that experienced its power and escaped as La Aguja del Dolor. The needle of pain. For reasons that the god never bothered to explain or that anyone cared to question, it was entrusted to Mugriego, who was immediately made High Priest (a position second only to Grand Weaver). His ineffable god demanded that his mouth be stitched shut using the single needle that had been embedded in Laguja when it was formed; it appears that this ritual gave the pincushion significantly more control over the new High Priest than it had over average people, and by this point little of Muriegro's personality remains. He is little more than a husk that carries and carries out the will of Laguja, but he is far from a zombie and frequently makes his own decisions and uses his own initiative, especially if separated from Laguja.

In a world where magic was largely believed to be superstition and only a dozen people on the entirety of Earth are both aware of its existence and able to wield it, Laguja is a powerful weapon; since its creation, the god's influence has expanded tenfold, and even 'civilized' people outside the Amazon have become aware of stories of a cult that commands supernatural powers. Their expansion would likely have gone on inexorably were it not for a power greater than the nameless god's plucking High Priest Muriegro from his world for sport.

The voice in Octavio's head was like listening to the sound of grinding stone formed into words. "Your treachery seemingly boundless, "priest". What made you think your transgressions would go unnoticed? Did you think your joke of a false god would protect you?" Bound as he was to the altar, Octavio could neither run nor even look away from the unblinking face of the silent High Priest; in his off hand, Muriegro still held the bloodstained knife that had just removed Octavio's eyelids, so save for the pooling blood there was nothing to let the heretical priest avoid the gaze of vengeance. "Speak, worthless beast."

The venomous voice didn't actually speak in Octavio's old dialect of Portuguese, simply making its meaning known without using anything as pedestrian as an earthly language; if he really strained, the heretic could make out the actual bizarre syllables before his brain arranged them into ideas he could understand. These thoughts were only making themselves the focus of Octavio's attention because the alternative was coming to grips with the situation he was in, a thought the bound man was not ready to entertain. "You will speak as you speak before your god!"

Emotionless eyes scanned Octavio's naked, whip-scarred form; he seemed to be maintaining his tight lips, even under the onslaught of physical torments he'd already ben subjected to. Muriegro calmly drew a four-inch brass pin out of the grey cushion, gently trailing its tip across the heretic's neck. "I will know the names of those you served, with your permission or without." The grime-encrusted claw holding the pin suddenly jabbed, sinking the metal into Octavio's neck. It was slowly withdrawn, tears mixing with the blood welling in the ex-priest's eyes, and the bead of red that welled up was teased into a complicated glyph on his skin.

Red-hot pain lanced through Octavio's body; his back arched and in spite of his iron self-control an animal yelp escaped his lips. The hissing words that weren't really there intoned "You have brought this on yourself, so it is only fitting that you be the one to deliver your punishment. Tell me their names." The High Priest undid the bindings on Octavio's right wrist and calmly placed the ceremonial dagger in it. Without being willed by the heretic's brain, fingers wrapped around the handle, and the elbow bent. Panicked, he tried to regain control of his body, but nothing from the neck down responded; his arm calmly dragged the tip of the knife down his torso, splitting the skin and opening lash-wounds further. As it passed the navel, a horrible realization dawned on Octavio, whose eyes dilated further.

"Griegla! Destino! Cebrazto!" These and a dozen more names tumbled from the lips of the now-blubbering priest, and the hand holding the knife paused, blade resting idly on his waist. "Good. Your eventual obedience is noted." Muriegro silently retrieved the dagger from Octavio's hand, which flopped to its owner's side. "You are no longer required." The High Priest unknotted the rest of the restraints, and Octavio hauled himself achingly to a sitting position. "You mean, I can just...?"

"Of course not."

Octavio's body was again out of his own control, muscles fighting each other as he strained to stop his inexorable march to the pit. Hands scrabbled on every surface they passed, futile grips slipping off the ichor-slicked stone. He stopped as suddenly as he had started, balls of his feet planted on the precipice of the spike-filled stone pit. "Remember, you bring this on yourself."

It was the longest step of Octavio's life. It was also the last.

Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.

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I've probably missed the boat on this, but I'll type the guy up anyways, seeing as how I'll be needing it for the next battle.

Name: WreckLess
Gender: Male
Font color: #0000FF (upper right)
Race: Human mostly
Weapon: Nah man the dude pretty much just makes do
Abilities: Dude's pretty athletic and has flashes of genuine cleverness now and then, also, flashes of extreme stupidity.
Description: WreckLess is about 6'2" and looks like he has some African and some Asian ancestry. Also: blue eyes. Not like Dune-blue, just pretty blue eyes. WreckLess is also pretty much ripped. He is like a straight-up sexual being with his muscles and body and he could do like thirty Olympics, sexually. He wears grey or blue spandex jumpsuits, and they tear sometimes. As for his personality, that's addressed below, okay.

Biography: Education's pretty improved in the distant, future, you know? Not, like, everyone's smart enough not to watch reality TV, but everyone's too smart to be in reality TV. So rather than doing what we do in the present and just script everything out, the studios tend to just go ahead and fix reality until reality reflects what people want to watch.

Enter this guy, here. What's his name or occupation? Who cares? The studios don't care and the ratings don't care. He cares, a little, but that comes before, or later. At this point he has been fixed so he doesn't remember much. His brain has been rewired so it's basically a backup set of testicles and an alcohol recepticle. There is no room for a "name" in this, id incarnate, the perfection of the reality TV ideal. There is, however, room for a cutesy nickname, which in the early 21st century the studios realized was much better than a name, especially if it reminded the viewers of body parts. And so was born "Erect," Contestant #2 on YKYWITV's "the Monogamist," which is not too different in premise or execution from many shows that exist today.

With his Godlike physique and completely sensationalistic supersonality, Erect won the Monogamist in half the required number of episodes and then accidentally chopped off one of her breasts in a gladiatorial combat incident during the honeymoon. The breast was replaced immediately but Erect claimed that the new one "didn't smell right" and a messy, highly publicized divorce soon followed. (The Monogamist soon defied her namesake and married all the other surviving contestants, plus her priest, and to my knowledge they're still happily married to this day.)

Erect's spinoff show, "You Can Be D'Erect With Me," and its increasingly bisexual second third and fourth seasons were ratings phenomena, but when the viewership started to find other perfect bodies to admire, or worse, primetime dramas, suddenly Erect developed a drug problem, changed his name to E:Wrecked, and went into Nudist Rehab. "E:Wrecked: Nudist Rehab" was, needless to say, a massive success, and the implant of the new, remorseful supersonality seemed completely fluid and naturalistic in context. However, all good things come to an end, except for E:Wrecked's perfect body which can be prolonged indefinitely through medication. Eventually the studios were forced to admit that it would be dumb and nonsensical for their character to relapse again, so E:Wrecked was sold to the XS Channel and became WreckLess, thrill seeker and travel enthusiast.

The WreckLess supersonality was made to be much cleverer than his predecessors, having all the skills necessary to inform and entertain viewers on his journey to the 648 most extreme places in the galaxy. Ratings were modest, until the studios realized that WreckLess was starting to learn things on his own, and was hatching a plan to escape media attention and end his hellishly sexy life as a minor celebrity once and for all. WreckLess's constant attempts to avoid the camera through Extreme violence and Extreme deception in Extreme places (in space!) gave the reality TV executives a viable competitor against their primetime drama nemeses, and ratings, once more, soared.

When WreckLess spontaneously vanished on camera in the middle of an episode, viewers just assumed that he had finally won, or that the studios had finally gotten fed up with him and vaporized him. However, the execs knew better. They sensed the intervention of something much more powerful than they, and the television potential pretty much gave them all the boners. Grand Battle or no, this dimension or that, there are always cameras. And someone's always watching. Otherwise what's the point?

Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.

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Name: Riko, known to his superiors as Scientist #31.
Gender: Male
Race: Human.
Colour: Ominous!
Biography: Ever since he was six, Riko has one dream: "I want to see space." Keeping that dream in the back of his head for 20 years, he finally accomplished part of that at the age of 27, when he graduated from the Rigor Sciedi university of Modern science and astronomy. Finding a job was a different task, one he couldn't get done for another two years. In those years, he moved in with his wife, married her, got together and had his only daughter. After that, he found a job opening at GRIMACE, an organisation built for world domination. He took the spot, waving aside all echital questions his mind came up with. With hesitation he left behind his wife and child to see the ifnal frontier and earn money for his supporting family at home.
Description: Riko is now a scientist to the evil organisation GRIMACE, which stands for "Grow Rich, Intimidate Mankind and Aid in Construction of an Empire". The acronym and description are the only thing on the flyers, alongside a telephone number. In GRIMACE there's a not-so-strict uniform: You can wear whatever, as long as people don't see your face or body. Hair is more or less a grey area. Riko has chosen for plain black boots, basic jeans, a bland, ocean blue T-Shirt worn with an orange hoodie over it, always unzipped, topped with a purple scarf. He also wears gloves and safety goggles, as his job demands. Depending on whoever's checking, and their tolerance for the universe, he covers his thin brown hair with that orange hoodie. He's not too ill-tempered by nature, but if you mess with him he'll mess with you
Abilities: Riko is what many would call a mad scientist. He creates strange machinery and diabolic breweries to aid his boss to conquer all worlds. He has great intelligence, can react quickly, is very precise and knows how to make do with what he has. Thanks to his studies he knows most of the universes by heart, can find pressure points on humans and seven other main races, and has general knowledge of what not to pour together in an erlenmeyer. Other than his job application, however, he is a nice cook, a reliable guy, a loving husband and - according to his coffee mug - the best dad in the world.
Inventory: An incredibly vast set of vials containing potions to mutate any living being. These can be labeled from 'breathe fire' to 'turn into metal' or simply 'die'. These potions are however his magnum opus, and the stronger they get, the less likely he is to part with it. He has some guns he is developing at hand, but they're still in testing, so they might not work properly at all times. He also has a communicator to contact his subpartition of his fraction of squadron seven in the GRIMACE army. Even after being pulled away by the Grandmaster, it still works because it is based on the Open-space principle. Basically, it means that there are enough different universes around stacked upon eachother in a dimension we can't grasp, that there must be one where between you and the other person you're talking to there is nothing but empty space. That way, messages will recieve the least disturbance and costant contact with the other person is ensured.

Originally posted on MSPA by Eversist.

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SpoilerShow

So, I'm guessing this round is full. [img]images/smilies/mspa_face.gif[/img]

Edit:
Don't count this as a "reserve," but I may attempt to enter before the entry period is up.

Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.

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Name: Zachariah Shaw
Gender: Male.
Font colour: #404072
Race: Human, albeit dead. Kinda.
Description, abilities, weapon blah blah: After the events described below, Zachariah Shaw is now a man of two halves. One is a ghost, in the traditional sense of being able to pass through walls, be tangible with a fair bit of exhaustive effort and float wherever he pleases. The other half is his recently reincarnated corpse, three days dead. It's a traditional, slightly brain-dead (not too much, since he wasn't dead for long), slow-moving but stronger than normal zombie.

Before death he had a reasonably dead-end job in an accountants office, being a typical twenty-something graduate with bookish tendencies and a passion for scepticism. Reasonably tall, his hair is almost a literal mop, black in colour, that was forever getting in his eyes. On the fated night, if it is at all important, he happened to be wearing a scarf and duffel coat. Both still adorn his corpse, if a little more ragged than before, and their spiritual versions still clothe his ghost which, for some reason, is a slight shade of purple.

Biography: WARNING! TEXT WALL AHEAD!

SpoilerShow

Barring his surprisingly continued sentience, Zachariah Shaw was reasonably certain he was dead. Not that he had much experience of what it was like to be dead, but he could at least take an educated guess. For a start, he'd just suffered the misfortune of having a couple of bullets tear their way through what he was reasonably certain was his stomach (he'd never been good with Biology at school). It didn't take a genius to postulate that, after a couple of excruciatingly agonising minutes twitching on the concrete, the sudden evaporation of every last needle of pain probably meant he'd passed on.

That and the fact he was standing up. Admittedly, he couldn't remember having instructed his legs to do so, but his present view, taking in the dumpster at the end of the alley, illumined under the suffusion of a faulty streetlight somewhere behind it, was not one he would have thought you could see in the night sky.

With the arguably naïve idea that some miracle might have occurred, Zachariah looked down. There was his corpse, lying there silent and still, with something rather similar to a wisp of smoke flowing from the aperture where the bullets had struck him. With trepidation starting to tarnish his euphoria, he followed it up. It turned a corner about two feet above him (the dead him, that is), then came back towards him. The “living” him. Which, it seemed, was indeed the vapour floating freely above his cadaver.

Lovely.

-~-~-~-~-~-~

Down a rather unfrequented alleyway, slightly out of the main city centre, someone had traced an outline onto the floor in off-white chalk. It was the figure of a man. You could tell that, since at some point since the time of death a passer-by had added, in their own yellow chalk, the correct genetalia.

Meanwhile, fifteen yards away, in an equally secluded warehouse, Zachariah Shaw was squatting. It had taken some considerable time to drag his body out of the elements, but that didn't exactly bother him. Counting the passing hours was by now a mere distraction, rather than a fundamental part in his existence. Time wasn't that noticeable, really; sure, the sun did set occasionally, but that stopped mattering shortly after everything else did. Eating, for example. He'd had quite the panic after a day or so when he suddenly realised he'd been forgetting about sustenance altogether, but that, he'd concluded, was merely denial. About, well, being dead.

For a fair while now, huddled into a corner that seemed far too small to him, he'd been sulking. Not crying, mind; no tear ducts. The mental trauma of being noticeably undead was taking its toll. It turned out that it was a pretty expensive fare. Toying with explaining it all to the police, to his friends, to his family; all of those hare-brained schemes had been shot down after several “hours” of back-and-forth thinking. For a start, he was tethered to his immobile cadaver and lugging the bugger around was surprisingly tiring. Tangibility was proving difficult.

Outside, some patchy drizzle was pattering out soft rhythms onto any surface it could find – he'd found, if you listened hard enough, and for long enough, the constant drumming became melodic and tuneful, all on its own. Then the radio guys switched to some new rap-heavy crap and it became more about trying not to listen at all.

At the moment, it was fine. The radio, perched on a girder that would soon make up the neighbouring construction, was playing something peaceful. It had a gentle beat, meandering between harmonies with graceful ease. Another rhythm faded in, more regimented, getting louder with every passing tap, ceasing abruptly, jogging Zachariah out of deep hypnosis.

To his left, someone cleared their throat.

“Afternoon.”

Someone had crept up on him, it seemed. Well, actually, with the benefit of hindsight footsteps are easily identifiable, but still. It was a man, sporting a frivolously long ponytail in an impossibly shiny shade of blonde. A pair of old-fashioned pince-nez was perched precariously on the end of his nose, through which he was currently staring at Zachariah. Setting him back another couple of decades was the cane he held in his right hand, which was itself covered by a velvet glove.

He had a smile on his face that made him look a little crazy, but an air about him that reeked of the impossible.

“Zachariah Vivian Ernest Douglas Shaw? Your parents weren't sadists, were they?”

All five names were correct, but after what he'd been through, nothing could really surprise Zachariah. Besides, he had a theory; it was a tad leftfield, but he drew on what remained of his courage and voiced it:

“Are… are you Death?”

The smile quivered a little, then grew.

“Oh no, of course not. That's a silly thing to say.”

Before a look of surprise could even find its way to Zach's face, the other man continued.

“He couldn't make it today, I'm afraid. Too much paperwork. Honestly, you'd be amazed how quickly it piles up when you go off for a few dozen millennia, swinging an oversized farming tool around the place like it's nobody's business. It was I who noted he could do with filling some of it in, actually.”

In that case…

“Um… are you God, then?”

His response was another unfathomably enormous grin.

“Not exactly, mate. I fall short of the definitions you people have come up with over the years, if memory serves. What were they now? Omniscient? Bugger that, I have trouble knowing what day of the week it is. Omnipotent? Well, for certain definitions, maybe, but if you want a miracle or an earthquake or a choir of angels, a week's notice would be appreciated… what was the other one? Oh, omnipresence; only every other Tuesday.”

Zachariah hadn't the faintest idea what his new acquaintance was rambling on about. He was pretty sure it was a “no”.

“And another thing; I'm a bachelor, dammit. I never got anyone pregnant, alright? I haven't had a son, courtesy to popular belief. You know, apparently, if I was God, according to your manifold religions, I should have one hundred and thirty different sons by now, not to mention seventy-two bleedin' daughters. I'm mean, I've been around, yeah, but not that around.”

The overwhelmingly bemused expression on the face of his unfortunate listener stopped him from getting any further.

“Anyway, actually, I kind of am your god, for the moment at least. Right now, your fate is in my hands. Well, no, hang on; technically, it's in yours. You've got a decision to make. See, what power I have is currently all geared up to do one of two things. The first is to leave you be, as you are, right here, right now. I'll do away with the past couple of minutes, if you like, just for your peace of mind. Existence will continue. You'd make a pretty good ghost, to be frank; I expect you could find yourself a better building than this to haunt…”

The deity paused, absent-mindedly peering through a hole in the warehouse wall. Zach's patience was being tested; not that he knew that, of course.

“And the other choice?”

“Well, I decouple you from that wretched corpse of yours and you'll be a free man, eventually. You'll still be a ghost; I can't fix that. But you won't have to lug you around and I guarantee you things will be easier.”

The smile turned into a sneer

“On one condition.”

“What is it?”

”I'm not telling you. What would the fun be in that? I promise you, I won't kill you; I'm a pacifist at heart. I won't steal your soul and I won't make your life a living hell. Well, more of a living hell. Point is, it's just a favour. Not much to ask, honest.”

The internal musings and reflections took about ten seconds. Zachariah didn't really see that he had a choice.

“Promise you won't do anything nasty?”

“I am a man of my word. I shan't do a thing to harm you.”

“Alright. What've I gotta do?”

The Gentleman known as Sruix smiled.

“Try not to blink.”

Everything suddenly went very, very dark indeed.

Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.

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SpoilerShow

MalkyTop: Eureka Finch - #543948 (profile)
Couldn't have picked an easier colour huh? [img]images/smilies/pc_insolent.gif[/img]

Originally posted on MSPA by whoosh!.

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The Prestidigitator smiled slowly at the eight before him and stood to greet them. All of the combatants were frozen in eight of the finest red velvet armchairs the universes had to offer, and those with suitable appendages were clutching a crystal glass of his personal cognac like their life depended upon it. White knuckles were a common sight among the lineup.

“Doubtless, dear combatants, you are wondering what's going on here,” he said in a perfect stage whisper, moving a little closer to the threshold of the shadow, where his fire's light managed to hit the room. He spread his hands, his grin easy and large.

“Why, my dear combatants, it is because you are unique. Impressive, proud and beautiful in your own ways, I have brought you here because, for want of a better term, I want your souls. Or at the very least, to see what they contain.” He lunged forward into the light, bursting through out of his beloved gloom into a single elegant stride. The first thing you noticed was the mask covering the upper half of his face. It blazed white, almost stunning enough to phase out the cracks that permeated its surface. The mask looked delicate enough to shatter with the slightest breath upon its surface, but its fragility only served to further its beauty. The faded maroon paint on its surface fell in graceful curves, but even with that is was unable to disguise the depiction of the demon upon it. The Prestidigitator's teeth were just as white, and just as terrifying as the demon face painted on the mask. His suit was not black as it first appeared, but speckled with small flecks of white. At first glance they looked lint or dust, but as you stared (and you could not fail to do so, not with a visage like that) you became aware of the stars that glowed softly, apparently millions of light years away but still adorning his cloth. His eyes, however, were just as heavily shaded as ever.

He chuckled, and flicked out a white handkerchief. A snake fell from its folds, but the Prestidigitator paid it no heed, instead choosing to address his guests again.

“But where are my manners? I must introduce you all.” He paused to observe his surroundings for a moment, then he snapped his fingers. “But of course! It would be even more terrible of me to restrict you to this dusty room. Let us walk.”

The room hurriedly peeled itself away, and the guests found themselves wandering along what appeared to be a kind of dry aqueduct, following the Prestidigitator on the dizzyingly high path over the dunes of a moonlit desert. A little of the day's warmth still infiltrated the air, and the wind was soft as it brushed past the contestants. The real stars in the sky blazed unlike any stars the combatants had ever seen before, stunningly fierce against their dark backdrop.

“Look,” the Prestidigitator murmured after a few minutes of the moonlit silence. Helpless to resist, their eyes followed the direction that his finger pointed in, where lofty and proud pagodas gleamed in the distance. They towered and sneered at the own combatants pitiful heights.

“They call it Afterparty, dear contestants.”

Suddenly, a yowl screamed through the serenity of the moment. Animalistic wails scratched at their calm, and within moments they were infected by fear, regardless of how out of character it may have been.

“And those are the creatures that crawled out of the Lock. They can be irritating sometimes, but I have the utmost faith in your marvelous skills! Either that, or you'll die a horrible, bloody death. Either way is entertaining,” he said casually, shrugging in a similar manner. “But I do need to introduce you. Afterparty is closer than it looks. Or further. Something like that.”

“This person here in the jet mask is Ripper Blackmask, a sky pirate of all things. Some people know Ripper by a different name; that being Adrian . Note the ostentatious equipment: that's not just for show. Dear Adrian is very nearly the incarnation of materialism, even going so far as to find a way to transfer a love of the shiny and expensive into physical power. Very slick.”

He slipped back, pushing Adrian to the front of the cue, where he rested his arm over the shoulder of a monk with stitched lips and robed in bland grey. The vials and other miscellaneous objects that hung from his belt clinked softly as he walked.

“Say hello to High Priest Muriegro, and his pincushion. A wonderfully exotic savage from the heart of the Amazon Jungle. He had the favour of a nameless god there, but he was no match for yours truly in terms of power. All the same, don't think of him as a pushover. Muriegro is a bit of husk, if I'll be honest, but he's controlled by the affectionately named La Aguja del Dolor, or the Needle of Pain. It leave it up to you to gauge the full extent of the power locked in that modest shell.”

Again the Prestidigitator slipped back one through the cue, until it came face to face with a trashcan. He sighed softly, and picked it up, the reassumed his place in the line.

“Speaking of shells, this is Miq. She's lovely. Just look at that smile. No, she's not a trashcan. Have some more respect for my superior skills of choosing. She likes the particular of delicacy of racoon and takes a liking to shiny objects. Underestimate her at your peril.”

He placed the trashcan down, from which point it resumed its mysterious mode of transport. The pagodas of Afterparty loomed considerably closer, just as another scream pierced the night. A swarm of fireflies drifted in front of him, glowing gorgeously in the darkness. The Prestidigitator sighed in appreciation, and glided after her.

“This cloud of insects is more than meets the eye. Look closer at her divine form, and you'll notice the vague shape of a woman. She was fierce in life, and she's just as antsy in life. Her name is Thatix, and she's lead armies and conquered whole countries in her time. Beware. Not to mention that her fire spells bite like a rabid dog.”

He slid backwards, and tipped an imaginary hat to a mammoth snake of shadow (at least ten feet long) gliding along the aqueduct. It smiled with numerous jagged teeth, soliciting a similar grin from the Prestidigitator.

“Fifth among you is Syvex. He's another beauty, a creature of the darkness. He's not so good in the light, but he's fantastic out of it. Conditions like this suit him magnificently. And it's not only those teeth you need to worry about. This one teleports, has various projectile attacks and regenerates better than a worm. That's right, you can bisect this bugger and he'll just come right back at you.”

A short sprint past Syvex' incredible mass led the gracious host to a tall man covered up in a long jacket and hat the same colour of sand. Both tattered and tanned, this was clearly a man of the desert.

“Tamerlane, everyone. Everyone, Tamerlane. Pleased to meet you. This freak of nature has control over dust or, more specifically, sand. He's right at home in the desert, so this is the one to watch this round. Bounty hunter by nature, he's no fish out of water in other environments. Watch out for his katana. There's nothing special about it, but that's not to say he can't split you like a melon with it.”

Tamerlane received a solid pat on the back from the suited Prestidigitator, before he too was passed on ion front of the host. The next object of his attention was an astoundingly plain woman with muddy brown, short hair. Coupled with her delicate physique, she was battling it out with the trashcan for the least threatening person among the troupe. The Prestidigitator settled for walking alongside her.

“This lovely lady calls herself Eureka Finch. Chuckle if you wish, but she's got complete mastery over cloth and has successfully angered and evaded two major organisations to date. And don't think a lack of clothing makes you any safer. She lugs around whole bales of cloth in those pockets of hers, I swear. Anyway.”

He slipped back to the final person, who also looked fairly ordinary. Fortunately, his safety goggles hinted at a more impressive occupation than a cloth mage.

“Last but not least, this is Riko, though he's known as Scientist #31 to his superiors. Look at that smile.” There was a distant lack of mirth on the scientist's face. “He messes around with dangerous chemicals, and rather effectively too. And cutting edge weaponry, so cutting edge in fact that it fails to work most of the time. I'll leave you to discover the scientific marvels he's lugging around.” He winked, even though all their eyes were drawn to the looming entrance to Afterparty, mere metres away. He stopped, dropping to the back of the line.

“That's it, I'm afraid. End of the line for me. And it's all up to you now,” he said with a slight tinge of regret, then swung slowly around and began a leisurely stroll back down the aqueduct.

“Oh, and that reminds me,” he shouted back in his usual booming voice, “I haven't told you why you're here yet, have I? Put it this way,” he said, his voice and image beginning to fade into the night.

“No one leaves here until one of you dies!”

SpoilerShow

Yep, this round is set in Afterparty, the place where .Memoria takes place. I'll highlight the more useful bits for you tomorrow, but right now I need sleep. A note: if anyone tries to walk away from the city, they'll find themselves walking straight back towards it after a little while. And there are creatures from the Lock everywhere. No people, bar a few terrified survivors, perhaps. Looks like the Lock creatures just overwhelmed the city or something. Have fun!

Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.

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"Oh lord," Eureka sighed, once The Prostiginator or whatever left. After thinking over and over how this was really annoying, she couldn't help but think most of her life up to this point had been rather pointless. After running away from organizations more powerful than her and successfully hiding away from most of humanity for so long, she had been picked up and dumped in this dump by only one man. Or god. Or whatever. Made it seem like there wasn't much of a point to anything.

And a battle to the death? Really? What a mess.

Eureka glanced at all her opponents with a little unease and a little indignation. There were some things she had never seen before. It was hard for her to think of a cloud of insects being one sentient being, for instance. Either way, she decided that they either would scoff at her cloth controlling power (those fire-starters in particular never seemed to think of her as much of a threat) or they would try to get her on their side to win and backstab her later on. She made a note to treat them with annoyance and annoyance respectively.

The trashcan, although it had some frightening teeth, was rather familiar though and Eureka couldn't help but feel comfortable looking at it. Many a times she would hide behind these containers of trash. A few times she actually jumped in them. Their grimy filth would stick to her and repel other people. Yes indeed, she liked trashcans.

She had the distinct feeling, however, that hiding into this trashcan would be a very bad idea.

The city ahead of her didn't look like a great place to be and she didn't particularly like cities anyways. Too many people. But apparently somebody had to die before she could leave so she needed to find a nice hiding place and, thinking about it, there was likely to be less people in the city judging by the screams. They would have either fled or died. Semi-abandoned cities usually meant to her that nobody asked many questions because they didn't trust strangers or they were dead. With that string of logic in mind, Eureka headed through the unguarded and long-abandoned gates as everybody else either were dazed or were thinking or whatever who cares.

Yes, there seemed to be lots of monsters around, but it was okay if they bothered her. People tend to frown upon killing annoying humans but pretty much endorsed killing annoying monsters. She would have to use...bandages. She hated getting blood on her scarf.

Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.

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Ripper Blackmask leaned back on a pillar holding up an archway and mumbled angrily. "Figures I'd be plucked out of the battle just as it was getting good. Though I s'pose it prevents me from risking a run-in with Jack Ketch." Blackmask, after making sure no one was around, briefly removed the mask to remedy an itchy nose. "On the other hand, now I got a seven-to-one odds o' not making it, which is much worse'n I generally had. Where's that rum fellow who gathered us here get off, anyway, callin' me Adrian? Ain't been called that since '24. Well, guess I better prioritize who I'm gonna be mucking about with."

Blackmask considered the other combatants. The cloth mage seems to have a right rubbish power, but if she's here than it must be gold in the ground. Best stay clear o'her. Then we got the trash bin, which could be... anything, it seems. And the lizard is probably going to get me in the Dutchman's grasp if I don't keep 'im forrard at all times... oh, scupper this. I'm in his grasp as it is.

Blackmask suddenly realized something. Unless, of course, I make myself more powerful, and fast... abandoned city, eh? Probably a lot of valuables here... Though invisible beneath the perpetual grin always adorning Ripper's titular mask, a second grin was forming, and the pirate quickly ducked inside the building the arch loomed over.

Originally posted on MSPA by Ixcalibur.

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Thatix's 'body' dissolved as the individual fireflies gathered and began to spiral around one another in a motion that was choatic to watch but for Thatix was almost therapuetic. Her mind had not survived the transition from human to swarm of fireflies very well and this was the best way to process complex information. That said it was not flawless. Thatix tried to figure out what was going on. Mere minutes ago she had been in the forest where she had died, only she was not dead any more because now she was made of fireflies, because that is what happens when you die perhaps. But she was here now and how had she got from the one place to the other? She shrugged it off. Did it even matter any more? That was then and this was now, and right here and now she was here and she had to deal with it. She stopped her incessant spinning, and reformed an approximate human form of herself out of habit. In front of her was a large town comprised of looming buildings with lots of windows. There was a pathway winding it's way through the city. It looked like it would be a long way down if she fell, which was okay because she was fireflies now and fireflies can't fall, or if they can then they just fly back up and everything is fine. So that was where she was. Great. It didn't really help her in figuring out what was going on but brilliant. What a nice place. She couldn't wait to get in there and do whatever it was that she was supposed to be doing. It was only as she watched a woman wearing a thick scarf, that she remembered that there were other people here as well. Yes she had been introduced to all of them. She swapped back to the swirling cloud and tried to remember where she had seen them all before.

Then it clicked! These were her enemies: the Council of Elders! She mentally chastised herself for not remembering sooner. Everything made sense now. The Council of Elders had discovered that she had come back from the dead and they had been scared that given time she would reacquire the support she had had, and that she would once again challenge them to rule the land of Itharia (although to be fair to the Council that was what she had been planning on doing), and in order to stop her they had teleported her here, to settle the score once and for all. In Thatix's fragmented mind the details had juxtaposed. Her scattered memories of the council that had stood against her were replaced with images of her opponents, and she would never know the difference. Thatix reformed into her approximate human shape. The Council was sadly mistaken if they believed that their tricks and surprises could best her. In truth this confrontation had been inevitable, and all the Council had done was hasten their own demise. Before this day was out she would rule Itharia.

Originally posted on MSPA by Dragon Fogel.

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SpoilerShow

I have to say, I like Ix's writing style with Thatix already.

Originally posted on MSPA by Anomaly.

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I finally escape that facility, and then I get thrown into this? Ah well, better than getting hunted by those scientists some more. Syvex examined his surroundings, taking advantage of the night's darkness. As far as he could sense, he was on top of some sort of aqueduct, suspended high in the air. He could tell there were buildings ahead, but couldn't tell many details from the distance. He could also detect faint signs of the creatures the Prestidigitator had mentioned. The "Prestidigitator"? What a nutjob. But if it's a fight to the death he wants, who am I to disappoint?

Syvex glanced over the other 7 competitors, all of whom were within his vision radius. Nothing worse than what I've faced. Shouldn't be a problem, as long as I don't get too careless. He could faintly hear some cries of pain from within the town ahead; more residents succumbing to the monstrosities within. He decided he might need to be careful here; he couldn't tell what was ahead from this distance other than vague outlines of buildings.

But maybe I can form an... alliance of sorts with some of the competitors. It could be helpful if they're not all trying to kill me. He looked at the competitors again for potential allies. The mimic? It doesn't seem all that dangerous. Probably approachable, at the very least. The cultist I'd rather stay away from. Something's just not right with him and that... pincushion. The girl with the funny name? It's probably safe to approach her as well. Even if it's not, what's she gonna do? Smite me with the power of cloth? The scientist... Ugh. I'd rather steer clear of scientist. The Prestidigitator mentioned something about chemicals, though. Maybe he has something of interest. Then there's the sand guy. He's definitely not a threat here, with the remarkable absence of sand. Harmless enough for now. The fireflies I'll steer clear of as well. Producers of light... horrid. And then, finally, there's the pirate. I think he's afraid of me, he could be entertaining. ...I wonder where he's headed in such a hurry.

Syvex noticed Blackmask rushing off towards the abandoned buildings up ahead. No doubt in search of treasure or something. Typical of pirates. Well, no sense sticking around here. Syvex slunk down the side of the aqueduct and continued along the side, not unlike a gecko clinging to a wall. After he was sure of which building the pirate was headed toward, he clambered around to the inside of the wall, where it was even darker than the surroundings. He could clearly see into the building now. Let's have some fun, Ripper. Syvex channeled dark energy through his arm, creating a small, swirling rift, dark purple in color, suspended in the air next to him. The portal opened into the ceiling of the building's foyer, and he prepared to get the drop on the pirate as soon as he entered.

Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.

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Most of the other competitors wasted little time in spreading out or drawing back or sizing up their opponents; Muriegro, however, simply stood with his hands folded in his sleeves as they had been since the cognac had disappeared. The tiniest hint of a breeze stirred the hem of his robe, but no other motion was detectable on the priest's person. No sound escaped from him either; chest still, no rasp of breath, he could have been a statue dressed in tattered clothing.

What he was doing or thinking was entirely ineffable to the other contestants; alone with their thoughts and schemes, they payed little attention to the strange, currently non-threatening man. They had no reason to suspect he might have anything to do with the slight ringing in their ears, and in the strictest of senses he didn't. Some of the more hominid battlers may have attempted to pop their ears or slap their temples in an attempt to ward off the slight sound intruding on the silence, and in so doing would have realized it wasn't an aural sensation at all, but a mental one. The rest realized as it raised in pitch, in perceived volume, and in gratingness.

What began as a dull bell-tone barely worth dignifying with a thought quickly became a cacophony akin to several heavily-distorted sirens wailing discordantly which smoothly became an indescribable noise that was the sound grief and loss and pain would make if they were wounded animals being slowly disemboweled. As the psychic din reached its peak, everyone present felt a sensation of deep longing with nothing to long for and a physical ache like that which comes with living with abiding sorrow for years. As knees buckled and eyes watered, as the mental and physical pain became too much to bear without crying out, as bile rose in throats and knuckles whitened, the sound and sensations stopped, leaving behind empty silence and the fading ghost of pain.

Through it all, where others had staggered or buzzed angrily or moaned in their throats, Muriegro had stood serenely; his hidden eyes hadn't blinked, his tattered lips had stayed motionless in their twine traces, his arms remained folded... No clue was given that he had borne the brunt of Laguja's outburst save for a tiny exhalation through his nose. That wisp of breath carried through the dead silence of the unnatural night, reminding those with the knack for detail that the shrieks that had so recently punctuated the air were gone. As soon as the thought occurred, those same screams were back, savage ululations rending the stillness with more ferocity than they had before the waves of grief had silenced them.

Laguja had been a gift to his people from a god; it had been made from that god's divine self, and was inextricably linked to that god. It was in many ways an avatar of the nameless destroyer. Being plucked from the world they had spent their entire existences in had been painful for most of the contestants, but only the malign pincushion had been torn from itself as well and crudely bandaged by an uncaring Grandmaster. Still, savagely rent or not, whatever divinity was still dwelling in the pincushion hadn't changed its nature; the entirety of its mental lashing had lasted only moments and it had been only moments since it ended, but La Aguja del Dolor was already planning and scheming with the same cold determination it had subjugated a sizable portion of the Amazon with. The same bent that had slaughtered countless jungle-dwellers, the same fury that fueled a god with plans of apocalypse, were now focused on one gaudily-dressed target; this delightful savage and his insignificant divine trinket would make the power that had brought them here suffer.

The priest's sleeves finally parted, and one gnarled hand dipped into the gaudy pouch on his hip. Fingertips that only failed to be claws by a very narrow margin caressed the delicate fabric of their deity's gift and magic began flowing. An exploratory tendril of thought crept across the calm battlefield, tracing contestants' faces and dipping below the edge of the aqueducts. The minds it found that had not been introduced by the Prestidigitator were... Confusing. Animal, almost, but twisted and seemingly only fragments. They were alien, and without doubtless-extensive study, were beyond comprehension or use. Those that had been named by their host were familiar, which meant controllable. If Laguja was to take its revenge, it needed to turn others against the Grandmaster too.

A low rumble escaped the throat of the silenced Amazonian; it was the closest he could or needed to come to a magical incantation, and served less to guide or create a spell than to focus himself and the tool that wielded him. The exploratory survey of minds became more focused, less an inquisitive tendril now than prying fingers. One mind, shattered and full of delusions, was of little use; she would be recalcitrant and difficult to direct. The world for her was not as it was for everyone else, and trying to convince her otherwise would simply entrench those convictions. Worthless. Another was driven by one single goal which served only to further itself; simple, easily directed, but similarly easily derailed. Perhaps a last resort should subtler means fail, but far from ideal. One animal and undirected, full of hunger and a deep-seated disharmony with itself; unhelpful unless the Prestidigitator tasted like raccoon. Artificial and predatory, just like the next one, but without its cunning and hatred of control. Neither were ideal candidates. This one uncooperative, lazy, fearful. May be induced to loathe the one who put her here, but likely to reject cooperation. Solitary and drab and frankly dull. Closely followed by another mind turned in on itself and concerned only with burrowing deeper inwards. A bladelike mind with purpose but little direction. May prove vengeful, may prove combative and unhelpful. No real suitable candidates. But the last mind...

Driven, but reserved. Cunning and intelligent but not callous. Love and anger and a million other deliciously-manipulable tools. History and best of all family. A mind with levers and a mind with tools of its own. Perfect.

Muriegro turned to Riko and cocked his head. The nearest thing his stitched face could muster to a grin was hovering around his lips, but it was probably unnoticeable in the moonlight.

Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.

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Being whisked away from his ever so noisy and busy post to be dropped in this abandoned wilderness had a certain impact on Riko. The constant racket his job provided was taken away, and he was left with the annoying sound of silence left buzzing in his ear. The quietude of the surrounding buildings struck Riko as odd, synthetic even. He was stalking Afterparty for any life with this newfound serenity when suddenly his plans performed a full turn to the other direction upon meeting the robed man in possession of the demonic pincushion. He didn't flinch in the slightest, nor show any sign of the fact he noticed the scientist, to the point one could question the fact he could notice anything. He backed away.

The buzzing continued, louder than before, and turned into a form of static. A clearly annoyed Riko decided to break the silence by humming something. Anything. It became clear this wasn't the sound of silence, but someone's influence on him. He noticed too late, as La Aguja commenced its wailing for everyone to hear. The agonising screeches soon proved too much to bear, and Riko cramped up, covering his ears with hands and scarf. The sadness within the cries could not have been described, or even fully felt by a human being. No words, expletives or tears would be enough to do it justice, and neither could they describe the relief one could feel once the screams stopped, or the exhaustion after fighting with this sadness.

Riko staggered, and tried to get a steady grip on himself again. "What the hell was that?!", he shouted to no one in particular. He quickly pulled out his communicator, barely pressing the correct numbers to get in touch with GRIMACE. First the job, then the family, as he's always had lived. "Hello? Scientist thirty-one looking for contact!" A gruff voice on the opposite end answered. "Thirty-one, where the hell are you? Get back to your post!" "Sir, if I had any idea I swear I would tell you right now. I've been teleported away by some unknown force. Can you trace my coordinates?" "It's always the same deal with you scientist types. If I had a penny for everytime something went wrong because of you guys I would nearly have enough cash to fix that fucking hole in Sector 88! If we find you and you are not far enough away to just take a cab over here I will make your entire bloody job hell on Earth!" "Believe me, sir, I am in hell on Earth." As usual, the general had nothing of merit to say, but he was a good man. He would surely make sure to find him. He just had to wait a bit.

He decided to make some contact with other people. The more they grew fond of him, the less likely they were to assault him. He greeted the cloth mage. "Hey, you're the one who can work with clothes, right? This hoodie is growing a bit short, but it's really comfy. Care to help me out here?"

SpoilerShow

My very first post in this Phenomenal Fracas was my 1000th post. Glee!

Originally posted on MSPA by MrGuy.

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Blackmask had just found a particularly pleasant-looking vase, probably quite worth converting, when Syvex made his debut. The pirate thrashed and shouted in vain attempts to throw the lizard of shadow off, but to no avail, and his claws dug deep into Blackmask's back. After a few mostly-futile attempts to punch him, the ringing in both of their ears became more pronounced and they dropped to the floor.

Both contestants winced in pain, invisible tears coming to Blackmask's eyes as the sensation increased. Realizing Syvex was equally incapacitated, and wishing to take the opportunity as it came, the pirate muscled up the willpower to flick the switch on the jetpack. Gouts of flame enveloped the lizard, their light reflected off the various precious metals surrounding them, and Syvex proceeded to shriek in a manner that only enhanced the pain Blackmask was in.

Eventually, the pincushion's hex grinded to a halt, at which point the withered body of Syvex cast itself back into the shadows. Blackmask, after the shadowy beast had vacated the premises, wiped the mask's insides free of vomit with a handkerchief, then replaced it, shut off the jetpack, and let out a cackle of victory. "Godspeed, and let that be a lesson to you, y'coal-sucking reptile piece of trash! Mess with Ripper Blackmask, and you'll be getting the very flames of hell tenfold!" Satisfied with this boast, the pirate proceeded to shatter the vase and feed the scraps into the Endorphic Core, muscles imperceptibly swelling-- a drop in the bucket, to be sure, but Blackmask knew well that drops add up.