[Game Thread] The First Battle: Welcome to the Island

[ValidUserName]

[In this thread, the PCs will arrive at the island, learn the rules, meet the gods, and be introduced to their fellow competitors.]

IC Rules 1.) If addressing a specific NPC or PC, please put their name in bold text. 2.) Put all dialog in bold text. 3.) Announce, at the beginning of your post, your character's name in [brackets] and in a colored text of your choosing. 4.) I don't give a flying **** how your character came to the tournament, as long as it involves a divine command or some kind of invitation. Come on, people: it's still RP. 5.) Have fun and talk ****.

They came. From many places, they came.

Some were invited, some heard a rumor from primordial forces, and some were under divine mandate. But of those thousands fro hundreds of worlds and times given access, only a small selection arrived. Some came by boat, some traveled through worlds. Others were simply Moved. But they all found themselves in the Temple Eternal, and they all were treated with the utmost hospitality.

Well, except for one, but we'll come to him later.

The Island of Ao was small, but it boasted close biomes. Some areas were desert, others jungle, and others lush hills or mountainous strongholds. And at the center of the island stood a cloud-reaching spire of stone, a natural column of granite that looks somewhat like a titan holding the Temple Eternal on his shoulders. The temple itself was Elysium's inn, a vast feasting hall with everything one could imagine and a pillared patio that looked out over the island. The stables were on the lower levels and the boarding rooms were lavishly appointed and waited on hand-and-foot by attractive male and female petitioners wearing gauzy togas.

All the combatants were told that their hosts would be with them shortly, and they were encouraged to partake of food and drink.

A grand wooden table was laden with food: roasted fowl and game, trays of fruit, bowls filled with sauces and gravy, vegetables simmered and baked in all manner of ways, a massive platter of breads and cheese, and endless flagons of wine, ale, and liquor delivered by kind servers. From the simple, rustic fair of a farmstead to the fiery dishes of exotic worlds, nearly every taste was considered. Even the more barbaric among the bunch would find the eating to their delight: raw fish and rancid rodents for the scavengers, heart of apostate for the demonic, and spit-roasted dog for the monstrous. For those who partook of no animal flesh, a six-armed cook slaved in the back to make dishes from flora that could stir the envy of the most ardent carnivore.

Roasted cumin lamb with mint preserves; venison braised with potatoes and carrots in sweet beer; eggs poached softly in court bouillon and topped with herbs and thick cream; black breads, brown breads, white breads, flat breads, and blue breads; sauces made from herbs and oil and spices and garlic; salads made with fruits only the gods knew the name of served with wine dressings and goat cheese; tongue-punishing gravies of fragrant spices with simmered meats and cooling mint yogurt.

Not to mention an endless bar tab.

This was the Temple Eternal, the gathering place of the gods, a resort and restaurant run by Madam Synenedir and her lover Keev. There were cushions and chair at all tables: the main table, group tables, or private booths in the distance. A short, squat gnome with green skin wandered around and offered those present a variety of herbs and tobacco for smoking, as well as cigars, pipes, and hookahs. If one needed a light, he'd snap his fingers and make the herbs burn.

In the corner, a woman with the torso of a lovely elfin queen and the lower portions of a resplendent serpent idly strums a harp, gold and silver jewelry hanging from her neck and wrists. She is otherwise nude and seems rather proud of it.

It is a celebration after all: a tournament to name the new God of War.

[OOC: Animal companions are allowed to attend their masters in the main hall of the Temple Eternal Resort & Restaurant provided they behave. Lady Synenedir has the ability to teleport any troublemaker away from the main hall, and though her aim is good, she may "accidentally" teleport a defender into the offal pit. Non-companion animals, however, such as basic mounts (not cavalier mounts) are kept in the stables.

[ValidUserName]

As the competitors relax, drink, and eat whatever they may wish to eat, the lillend playing the harp stops and bows. The double doors - oak with heroic reliefs and gilded in gold - swing open. Light breaks over the floor as five figures walk into the room.

One man who looks like a mix of a turkey, a crow, and an old hermit slips in and stays hidden in the corner, staring around with the nervous look of a bird. A number of crows fly around him, and his eyes are wholly black. His lips look like a shallow beak.

A thing that is not man or woman but still resplendent and bedecked in incredible finery seeming made out of leaves, clouds, and fire stays by the door and look around curiously.

An older, thin fellow in a simple tunic and trousers with his graying hair in a pony tail instantly smiles at the crowd gathered and gives most of the servers hugs.

A frazzle-haired woman in a black dress who radiates heat and has red eyes goes to the nearest table, grabs a large leg of boar, and proceeds to messily eat it.

At the center of the entourage is a resplendent, blonde elf in a gauze gossamer gown. Though her face looks differently to everyone, the evanescent woman still has a commanding presence. And it is from her that the light shines.

She looks to all in the room and smiles. The dark evening sky seems to lighten when she does so.

"Greetings, competitors! I am Nike, the Goddess of Champions. And I would like to welcome you all to this tournament, where you will compete for the title of God of War."

The servers, lillends, and most of the other gods give some applause.

"I know that all of you are tired and would like to continue with your feast, so I will make this short.

First of all, some rules. Sabotage of another competitor - including, but not limited to, out-of-arena attacks with intent to maim or kill - will result in the immediate disqualification of the aggressor.

Second, anyone at any time may forfeit a match and be instantly, peacefully, and painlessly slain, their spirit rising up to become a servant of the divine patron or matron of their choice.

Third, each match will be fought until one competitor kills the other or one runs away from battle. Competitors who flee the border will be disqualified and will no longer be beholden to the good graces of Ao Island. You will have to find your own way home, which, I can guarantee, will be quite difficult.

Not to put a damper on your festivities, but we have decided the matches. They will begin two hours after sunrise tomorrow, so I suggest resting as well as you can tonight."

She clears her throat, and a small man with bat wings seemingly made of smoke appears in a puff next to her, handing her a scroll that she reads from.

"Tomorrow, we will see eight matches. You will be taken to your arena when you are ready for battle on the morrow. Each arena will be different, and our local god of weather will decides, by casting stones, what the weather conditions will be.

First: Jak'kill versus Kara!

Second: Matilda Gurk versus Diamous Direlance!

Third: Korriss Long-Tooth versus Cyril Beaumont!

Fourth: Jacob Grace versus Manaxus Tarbraxian!

Fifth: Penelope versus Sir Glorion Lightstaff, the Incorruptible Lion!

Sixth: Nui Londalt versus Sylvia Loton!

Seventh: Saint Marcus the Third versus Iomi Baning!

And finally, the eighth match: Rike Oren versus Arcturus Enegous!"

She looks to Vrix Sh'Kama with an apologetic nod. "I am sorry, Master Sh'Kama, but you were not able to be paired with a match. You will have a pass until the next round. On behalf of our Court, I would like to extend my..."

The double doors open once again. In steps a man wearing black leather and a hooded cape. He speaks not with a cultured tone, but rather with the patois of a medieval gutter-snipe. "Hold up there, missy! Ya'll just didn't give me time to get to the fight. I guess my invitation was lost in the mail, eh?"

The elvish goddess glowers at the man in the hood and he bows to all gathered. "Carras Crow, at your service. If my competitor - that fellow? The owl-lookin' chap? - wishes it so, I'll face him."

[Samurai Zero]

[Arcturus Enegous]
Though he tried to sit in a corner off by himself, it immediately became obvious that the others wouldn't allow it as they funneled in to take what seats remained. Arcturus sat there humbly without a word, watching through his sunken eyes as each forsaken warrior entered the hall and slowly sat near him until finally they were all there.

He picked up the leg of lamb and bit into it, ripping the meat straight from the bone, the rush of flavors and spices immediately hit him and he brightened up a bit, if only for a moment. The hall went silent, and then the woman began to speak, Nike was her name. A shiver crept up his spine as he felt the excitement from Sirus This should certainly get interesting. Sirus' thoughts protruded into Arcturus' mind, causing him to have headaches, but he had grown used to them by now, bringing up his hand to massage his temples, and take another swig of ale.

When the goddess was finished talking, he looked at the others around him, a look of dread crossed his face, but not a fearful dread. He slaps his hand on the table with a sudden stern look, and with a horse voice says to the others "Name's Arcturus." and for a quick moment you see his eyes flash from the dark hazel to a brilliant blue, and back to the dark hazel that they were.

[Muggins]

[Cyril Beaumont]

Cyril had never been a man of faith. While the gods clearly existed, they'd never done anything for him - at least, not without extensive prayer. He'd never had the time for dedication, and the only power they granted as to be used wisely. Cyril was a man of action, independence and desperation. To rely on greater powers was never his fate.

Even so, the invitation was a rare offer. Only a few could possibly hope to become a god, and those who did were likely seen as madmen. It was a preposterous idea, truly insane, but it was one that Cyril had still taken. When one's kingdom controlled all of the known world, where else was there to go? When one had slain every mortal foe, what else was there to fight than the immortal? It was for such a prestigious position, too: a God of Strife.

It was thus that Cyril found himself Moved, shifted from his plane to another without a second thought. Armoured, robed, cleaned; he had all the mortal realm could offer, and now sought after the divine. He begun with their food and recreation.

Upon hearing the planned matches, Cyril made an effort to study the patrons around him. He tried to put names to faces, or to at least count those who looked eager for a fight. There appeared to be some absences. "I am Beaumont," he said, following Arcturus' lead. "Milady, there sounds to be a mistake. I count only sixteen," he continued, "including the late arrival. What will be done?"

[AximusLokar]

[Nui Londalt]
With the welcoming speech completed Nui felt more free to wander and speak to the various interesting beings in the room, grabbing a number of kebobs gripped like throwing knives between his fingers.

After making a few rounds he finds himself drawn towards the being clothed in silken flames. Approaching he bowed politely, introducing himself. "Greetings. I am Nui Londalt of the Celeb-Migil. I pray you'll forgive my unfamiliarity, my order does not emphasize theology among it's educational practices."

[Cayzle]

[Jacob Grace and Jackson Dance]

There are teleports, and there are teleports. For Jacob Grace, who cast his teleport while in a dream, his love of risks had finally paid off, and somehow, some way, he had teleported to the tavern of the gods. And not just any gods -- these are the gods of conflict! And their contest is for a new war god!

He watched patiently for a while, sipping at a glass of absinthe, nibbling on some kind of hors d'oeuvre, a goat cheese dainty on snakemeat tartare, was his best guess. He "listened" -- that is, his eidolon telepathically relayed to him the words that the deaf oracle could not hear. And then Jacob understood why he had been selected to attend this event.

"Ha! I see your mad thoughts," said his eidolon telepathically to him. Jackson knew him too well. "Jacob, you think you can convert these beings to your -- um -- unusual -- philosophy! You think you can convince these people that war should not actually be about killing!"

"Well, someone has to stand up and speak truth to power," Jacob thought back. "And since I can't talk, you'll be speaking for us."

"Sigh," thought the eidolon.

The two rose in unison. Both dressed in ceremonial black garb -- in some universes, the uniform of the "ninja", in other universes, the stage-dress of trained dancers. Only their identical eyes showed; all else garbed in black silk. Each carried a short staff -- a weapon or a prop?

They walked over to the musician, the elf-snake-taur, and bowed when her performance paused. jackson spoke for them both. "May we beg a boon, lovely lady, for an accompaniment? My master and I would deem it the highest honor to perform for this worthy company."

If she agrees to help, and if no one objects, Jacob and Jackson pause for a moment in silent prayer (Casting Guidance on both). Then nodding to the musician, they engage.

Is this a fight? They trade blows! They swipe and feint, thrust and parry! They leap and twirl! It is combat as dance. They use those short staves as weapons and props! And they move together as perfectly matched ... duelists? ... foes? ... partners? ... dancers?

The dance steps up a notch, as the dancers flicker in and out of perception. Sometimes they are blurs. Sometimes they actually disappear altogether. First one, then both -- GONE! Only the most incredibly perceptive can see shadows where they stand. Then they reappear in a beautiful clash!

[OOC: Both dancers have the exact same Perform Dance mod: +20 with Guidance. Taking 10 would give a 30, but Jacob is a risk-taker, as has been stated.]

Dice Roll:

d20+20

(9)+20

Total = 29

Dice Roll:

d20+20

(18)+20

Total = 38

Regardless, when the dance is done they bow to the musician. Jackson declaims for all to hear, "And so, my lords and ladies, we offer the Art of War!"

They bow to all and sit down.

[Ytterbium]

[Matilda Gurk]

The old woman steps deliberately into the room and up to the buffet, from which she takes a giant turkey leg. She shuffles over to the most isolated spot available, squintily scowled at everything (with the louder folk in the room receiving multiple scowlings), and then eases herself into the chair, a process that, thanks to her age, took a bit longer than it used to.

She digs into her turkey leg, puling out a gold-trimmed scroll and rereading it.

Scroll As one of the most powerful people in your world, you have been selected to participate in a tournament of champions. The winner of said tournament shall be named the next god of war and receive all the rights and privileges of godhood. When you are ready to arrive, grasp the scroll and will it to bring you to the Temple Eternal.

No personalized escort. Too bad.

Taking another squint around the room, Matilda can only mumble quietly to herself, "So where are the other competitors? Is this really it?"

She then shuts her eyes. Be smart. Find the weak link. You destroyed the Storm City North End bridge club, and they had been friends for 68 years. The fools here already hate each other. It'll be no trouble. But win first. Then, and only then, you finally can drop the pretense.

Matilda tucks the scroll back into her knitting. Not only had she not tipped the delivery boy, she left him with some difficult questions for his mother to try and answer – if he ever even spoke to her again. I really will have fun tearing things apart here.

Matilda goes to work on a hat, the slight click of her needles purposely out of rhythm with the background music.

[Mostlymad]

[Rike Oren]
Ugh, the red haired youth sighed inwardly as he made his way to the buffet. Slopping some grub on his tray the boy King made his way to the same isolated table the old crone had set up shop in. Spinning his chair around and straddling it, Rike placed the tray on the table and stole a glance at Matilda opposite him. Hrmph they'll let anyone in this place, his thoughts echoed through the look. The music kicked on and Rike nearly lost his appetite as he watched the dance not because the dance wasn't any good, nay it was one of the better ones he'd ever seen even within his palace. No, he nearly hurled when it was proclaimed as the 'Art of War'. "Art of War my ass," he grumbled loud enough for those nearby to hear. "More like a bunch of fairies twirling with sticks, play fighting, than war."

Indeed, what do these yahoos know about war? How many have commanded troops, squads, legions of men into the cacophony of battle. Swooned under its lusty call, beckoning for the blood of others. "I bet there is one, maybe two, actual commanders within the whole lot," Rike mumbled. Though he doesn't look it Rike has been commanding troops since he hit puberty. Winning his first battle at an early age and leading a successfully campaign to become his countries youngest king.

Digging into the food, Rike took to looking over his opponent Arcturus trying to gauge his strengths and weaknesses.

[Coeur de Lion]

[Manaxus Tarbraxian]

The tiefling brooded, even more successfully than most of his kin, narrowed eyes watching the superfluous impromptu dance routine. Or it would have been superflous, had it not been his named opponent in the arena tomorrow.

He leaned forward on the table at which he sat and absent-mindedly cracked his knuckles and clasped and unclasped his strong hands as he watched each move, studying, anticipating what was come.

Once the prancing about was complete, he leaned back in his seat once more and cast an eye around the room, noting any reactions among those gathered. It would interesting to see how the matchups fared and who would be left to fight on...

[Cayzle]

[Jacob Grace and Jackson Dance]

"Hmm, not too much applause there, Chief," thought Jackson to his master as the two walked back to their table.

"That just goes to show how much we are needed here," thought Jacob back. "We have to win if we want to prove that battle must be about beauty and victory, but not about death."

As they pass by Manaxus Tarbraxian, the two -- looking like perfect twins, to the naked eye -- bow deeply in unison and then move on.

[Samurai Zero]

[Arcturus Enegous]

Arcturus seems to constantly look around him, keeping an eye on individuals around the room, then back to devouring the food on his plate. The sudden display of dance caught his attention. He watched the man twist and twirl, the blade thrusting against an invisible force. It was almost believable enough for Arcturus to want to jump to arms, for he had his fair share of fighting invisible enemies, however after closer inspection he realized that the man was merely just performing, and Arcturus again settled back in his chair.

He heard the insult from across the room, looking to see the red haired youth shift in his seat in disgust. Arcturus laughed, "Too true. That was a fine performance, however it's certainly no 'Art of War'." Arcturus got up to grab seconds, preferring to be full of good food before his first match. He knew all too well that this could be his last meal, and he dreaded the fact, but not Sirus, he was excited.

Sirus quietly observed beyond the eyes of his master, gaging all of the prospective warriors. And that right there is our challenger, he thought as he looked through his master's eyes at the red haired youth who had previously called out the performer. Arcturus' hands start to shake, and he tries to play it off as nothing as he wipes off his hands with a napkin, and then massaging them.

[2nd Chance]

[The Incorruptible Lion]

A great lion with an electric blue coat of fur lays across a dozen large pillows while it eats a shank of beef. He is the size of a horse and looks around the room with a fiercely intense gaze. He seems to be judging the other contestants and remains silent as some of them begin speaking to each other.

'In the presence of gods and they prance like fools,' he scoffs to himself. 'Surely I cannot be the only hope the multiverse has for salvation.'