Re: Epic Clash Round 1 - Dungeon of the Crimson Fish
02-06-2010, 06:33 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Babel.
There is a certain feeling that is aroused when, in the throes of battle, one finds himself pulsing, breathing, shaking, and dancing in the wake of death – a euphoria gained from the act of war. Emilio, for his part, always associated this feeling with life. Take from him the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the kill, the glory of the battle – and he would be at a loss as to what to do. Never could he pave the paths of peace. Emilio was a man of action. Words were meaningless in the face of a sword. The greatest governments could crumble to pieces at the hands of an able bodied legend. The old, the wise, the just – all these concepts were mere illusions that shielded the world from the simple fact that what most considered life was but a quickly festering notion. There are only actions in the world. Actions of the strong against the weak. Actions of the capable against those less capable. These were all things Emilio believed in. As such the only things that interested him were the challenges issued to him by the world. Evil was one such challenge.
For what else is a horde but a devastating power? What else is an ogre but a thicker blooded man? How else can tyranny be defined but as the subjection of the poor, the weak, the helpless by the strong, the fit, the capable? Emilio's war against darkness was rooted in his deep-seated admiration of strength. Goodness became the unintended consequences of his actions. Honor became a gauge – a series of badges that numerated his accomplishments. Emilio the knight, Emilio the good – both took back seats to what had swiftly become Emilio the legend. The songs reflected this, reassured him. Made him breathe, move, act, live.
At this moment he was alive. He knew that well. He felt the familiar feeling flow through his very being – his palms were wrapped around the hilt of his sword but he felt not weight. In the icy corridors of this maze, he was feeling warm. Life boiled inside of him. He lived, for now, solely in the present – in the slight shifts of weight between his heels, at the deafening silence in the gaps of stolen conversation. Every ounce of his being was concentrated into the task at hand. He slid forward. Pebbles fled from his feet, but he paid them no heed. He waited until the voices came up again.
There were three of them. They talked in endless cycles, of camaraderie and despair, with no regard to discretion. One of them even had even announced himself to everyone in the nearby vicinity. Was it foolishness, or arrogance? Emilio could not judge by looks alone. His advantage was in the knowledge that every contestant was considered dangerous. Two of the men were plainly dressed, which reflected to Emilio the deceptive powers of the supernatural. The other one, a man of war, sat smirking in the darkness, enveloped by black plate metal. This was the one that the others seemed wary of. By all practical terms, this was the one that would be easiest to strike down first. Emilio pulled his shield from across his back, and stepped toward the three, revealing himself as he strode menacingly towards the black knight.
“Villain!†He shouted, “Wretch! I have seen your ways! Know the name of Emilio Nahaz, and stand to accept your fate!â€
Shield ready, sword swiftly moving through the air, armor almost shining even in the dark, he kept his eyes locked on the black knight, and allowed the other two men to accustom themselves to his announced arrival. He would play the part of the knight for now. He would earn their trust. He would acknowledge their petty rules because he knew: While the strengths of his competitors might prove themselves admirable, it was the strength of his gracious host that he truly wished to know.
There is a certain feeling that is aroused when, in the throes of battle, one finds himself pulsing, breathing, shaking, and dancing in the wake of death – a euphoria gained from the act of war. Emilio, for his part, always associated this feeling with life. Take from him the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the kill, the glory of the battle – and he would be at a loss as to what to do. Never could he pave the paths of peace. Emilio was a man of action. Words were meaningless in the face of a sword. The greatest governments could crumble to pieces at the hands of an able bodied legend. The old, the wise, the just – all these concepts were mere illusions that shielded the world from the simple fact that what most considered life was but a quickly festering notion. There are only actions in the world. Actions of the strong against the weak. Actions of the capable against those less capable. These were all things Emilio believed in. As such the only things that interested him were the challenges issued to him by the world. Evil was one such challenge.
For what else is a horde but a devastating power? What else is an ogre but a thicker blooded man? How else can tyranny be defined but as the subjection of the poor, the weak, the helpless by the strong, the fit, the capable? Emilio's war against darkness was rooted in his deep-seated admiration of strength. Goodness became the unintended consequences of his actions. Honor became a gauge – a series of badges that numerated his accomplishments. Emilio the knight, Emilio the good – both took back seats to what had swiftly become Emilio the legend. The songs reflected this, reassured him. Made him breathe, move, act, live.
At this moment he was alive. He knew that well. He felt the familiar feeling flow through his very being – his palms were wrapped around the hilt of his sword but he felt not weight. In the icy corridors of this maze, he was feeling warm. Life boiled inside of him. He lived, for now, solely in the present – in the slight shifts of weight between his heels, at the deafening silence in the gaps of stolen conversation. Every ounce of his being was concentrated into the task at hand. He slid forward. Pebbles fled from his feet, but he paid them no heed. He waited until the voices came up again.
There were three of them. They talked in endless cycles, of camaraderie and despair, with no regard to discretion. One of them even had even announced himself to everyone in the nearby vicinity. Was it foolishness, or arrogance? Emilio could not judge by looks alone. His advantage was in the knowledge that every contestant was considered dangerous. Two of the men were plainly dressed, which reflected to Emilio the deceptive powers of the supernatural. The other one, a man of war, sat smirking in the darkness, enveloped by black plate metal. This was the one that the others seemed wary of. By all practical terms, this was the one that would be easiest to strike down first. Emilio pulled his shield from across his back, and stepped toward the three, revealing himself as he strode menacingly towards the black knight.
“Villain!†He shouted, “Wretch! I have seen your ways! Know the name of Emilio Nahaz, and stand to accept your fate!â€
Shield ready, sword swiftly moving through the air, armor almost shining even in the dark, he kept his eyes locked on the black knight, and allowed the other two men to accustom themselves to his announced arrival. He would play the part of the knight for now. He would earn their trust. He would acknowledge their petty rules because he knew: While the strengths of his competitors might prove themselves admirable, it was the strength of his gracious host that he truly wished to know.