Video Game Forums

OoC: Open FFA thread, which means anyone can come in and fight whoever the hell they want, ally themselves with whoever the hell they want, betray whoever the hell they want, leave (coughdie) whenever they want and come back whenever they want. If you don't like how your fight is going, die, throw in a new character and fight somebody else. Remember death isn't carried over in BF topics. Trying to create something that'll go on for a long, long while, maybe (gloriously) breach twenty pages or something, that'd be interesting. Like I said, carry this war as far as you want - skyrocket yourself to the friggin GIant of Babel, smash someone through the earth's crust into the Underworld if you want, fight on Mt. Ordeals, doesn't matter - but everyone should be starting this around Baron Castle.

And for those two of you who don't know what Baron Castle is/what FF4 is, it's a pretty simple fortified castle with battlements and towers a little ways from the bustling town of Baron (equipped with aquaducts) surrounded by valleyed countryside and sweeping dune deserts, and mountains, by an ocean. For the sake of to-the-bussiness-ness, the town and castle are empty. /OoC

Two figures stood somberly atop the western battlefield of Castle Baron, their dark figures cutting pieces out of the yawning blamelessness of an afternoon blue sky like the silhouettes of perched crows. The stone brick-lay of the wall sat crumbled and magnificent, ancient and cracked and overwhelmed by colourful curtains of creeper vine and climbing vegetation, petals sticking out from the verdant lush of green like broken pieces of treasure. The parapets stood cooly to the clouds, beings of enormous patience, the coat-of-arms and colours of Baron blazing from silk and cloth banners fluttering proudly in the breeze.

The first figure was a mostly unfamiliar face to the Battlefield. He was helmed and armoured in darkly polished metals cut close to the body that played a black viciousness about his corporeal features, scarved and sashed in silks of brilliant scarlets and purples and golds giving his regalia a decidedly oriental flavouring, a kind of saccharine venomousness. The only flesh visible to naked eye on his body was his jawline and the lower part of his nose, stony and silent beneath the glossy black armouring of his helm, his dark lips pursed in a grim pleasure and coloured with a kind of distinct, dead pallour. This man was Les Mercenair, and was thinly robed in a silky cloth so dark as to give the illusion of depth, to the point where it seemed the glittering chips of indifferent stars played themselves about its traceries. He wore on him the scabbarded forms of several powerful swords, varying in size and style and design and purpose.

The second figure was of a very familiar face, but of a countenance so poisonously unfamiliar it seemed to hang with its own weight on air, like oxygenated venom. The whole right side of his body was painted an arterial red, and done so in the fashion of tribal death's head about his eyes, lips, and nose. He was an immense man in frame, lean and sinuous, but the mass of him was grotesquely enlarged so that his musculature was swollen and veinous off his body behind flesh that seemed drained of all real colour. His hair hung from his skull a dead, bleached white, like something too long rotten and massive, rusted iron rungs pierced his flesh, suggesting chains enormous in weight and size and some form of imprisonment. He was almost entirely naked save for a single white sheet tactically worn from privates to his single shoulder, where the other arm had seemingly been torn away from his frame like a chicken wing, leaving a ruinous scarring of the flesh. This man had once been known as Yuri, a monument to sanity, reason, and to balance in the grand scheme of things. Now he was called Yuranos. He was still, a pool of stagnant water, flies settling and unsettling from his face and other verminous insect life crawling and bustling across his features and the craterous scar where his left eye had been.

Mercenair turned metallic, golden eyes upwards, glaring hard at the fiery dime of the noon sun as it set the clouds around it to fire.

"Time, soon?" He muttered more to himself than anyone. Yuranos did not respond, only breathed in that frozen, meditative stillness. Mercenair ignored him, bringing a mailed fist to his assortment of archaic, Olympian weaponry. He was, as could best be considered, a connoisseur of sorts in that field.

OoC: Also, yeah I feel like kicking some asses. Get the creative bloods in me flowing.

OoC: Also, with the numbnuts popularity this seems to be garnering (and yes I am impatient), I could easily turn it into a duel for whoever wants a stab at me, at which point I'll just use MErcenair cuz he's cool.

Clang. Clang. Clang.
He no longer went by his given name from oh so long ago. It was no use to him anymore. These days, days gone past, and days to come he went by Knight. For that was simply who he was.

Clang. Clang. Clang.
He made a ruckus to suit a dozen men as he walkedtowards the castle. It was only natural that he do so, being covered in enough armor to outfit said dozen men. The first, and more often then not battered, layer was that one expected from the stereotype. Full plate mail from head to toes some six feet away. The design was simple, if well made, and his weapon no more fanciful. A simple five foot of haft topped with another foot of blade. The armor and weapon of a simple soldier of war.
Clang. Clang. Cla-...

Knight looked up. His gruff voice, that of an aged man, rose undisturbed by the echo of his helmet.
"Let us dance you and I."
Knight was not going to waste time with actually getting up there. He pulled back and hurled his spear, and as he did, it changed. From a simple spear, it erupted into a dozen javelins. The old man known as Knight braced himself, his armor now bearing a mass of spikes. This was going to get bloody, and rather quickly at that.

Ooc: For future reference, underneath the Full plate is breast plate, underneath that is scale mail, and underneath that is light chain.

The sun shined upon the tranquil area that served as Baron’s graveyard. Rows and rows of many graves, ranging from simple well kept stones to large, elaborate monuments, rested tranquilly over many generations of men and women. A lone figure strode into the graveyard, and with it came a cloudy sky and thick mist. The man was old. Unbelievably so. His head and face were partially obscured by the dark hood of his robes. The robes themselves were pitch black, and melted into constantly shifting shadows before reaching his feet. In his hand he clutched an old gnarled staff, set with a horrifying assortment of bones, the most shocking of which was the ribcage with topped the staff.

Wordlessly, the old man waved his staff through the air, and the mists swirled with it. The air became almost heavy with a powerful magical energy. It seeped into the very ground itself, flowing into every nearby grave. The old man smiled grimly as the layer of earth above each grave began to shift and rumble. Simultaneously, many of the graves were split, and from each emerged an undead warrior. They varied from a bare skeleton to a fresh corpse, still muscular and rotting. They shambled slowly towards the old man, gathering around him like troops around their leader.

Now quite pleased, the lich waved his staff at the multitude around him. The mists again swirled around their hands and body. It concentrated in their hands in the form of assorted weapons and shields. They now wielded everything from axes, hammers, swords, and even a severed limb in some cases with a new fervor. The Lich looked over the horizon at the castle, and watched the battle beginning there. He decided to let that battle play itself out, and rested amongst his servants. There he waited.


OoC: I love this kind of battle.

"Yuranos, esquive!" Mercenair barked and on command there was a fold in space, a single, dimensional handclap, and the madman flattened from the air itself with a small thump and purple haze. Mercenair's right arm whipped over his left shoulder, his left slapped against his hip, and with viperous speed two blades were torn with the shrieking of metal on metal and the hiss of leather from their sheaths. He launched himself from the battlements like a raven, his silks fluttering behind him, spreading like moth wings on the wind, both blades wheeling around each other as if enraged.

The javelins passed across him like a curtain of sleet, and steels flickered, crashing against them and splintering the weapons around him to debris, the rest thunking harmlessly off the brick of the CAstle Baron wall. His silks billowed out behind him and he hit the ground, a dark arrowhead of onyx and steel, and he flowed in a sprint that tore the earth up from the grass in spurted gouts. His right arm wielded Hauteclere, the high lightning of Olivier, and his right Courtain, the sword of Ogier the Dane, two of his mythical armoury.

Knight chuckled and readied himself for assault, but he was not expecting his adversary to wield so mad, unbalanced power. Mercenair drove Hauteclere forward and Knight's hair stood on end with the new nature of the air, which smelled like burning hair and seemed to hum like crashing circuitboards, and all the air displaced by Mercenair's insane velocity seemed vacuumed into Courtain's orbit, leaving an obliterating trail of destruction behind him.

He roared and flipped upwards in a macabre display of gymnastics, coming down with aerobic lethality, swords scissoring as he did. Hauteclere thrust to Knight's eyesocket, and as he jerked his head back in response the point instead puncturing the shoulder-guard and seizing his body with a current so brief and powerful in baked his skin and actually set his hair on fire. Courtain wheeled and drove upwards towards his gorget, missing but bringing with it enough g-force to shake the armour from Knight's body and hurl him backwards off his feet a quarter-kilometre in the opposite direction, uprooting earth, stone, and sand in a heaving maelstrom of debris.

Mercenair landed and shrieked spitting through a snarl of tittering rage. "MEURS!"" and the swords were brought to bear again.

Bump.

The twisted mountain of a man known now as Yuranos watched the battle between his own well-armed companion and the old Knight as it waged on the ground beneath. Behind him there was a shuffling sound, and he turned quickly to inspect the commotion behind him. He found himself facing a crowd of armed undead, shambling around him almost aimlessly. From behind the crowd stepped their lord Lich, who strolled to the battlements a fair distance away from Yuranos. With the Lich came a thick mist, which had begun to flow through the entire city, but remained always at its most oppressive wherever he traveled. Wordlessly, the Lich motioned to the grounds on the other side of the castle.

Yuranos peered over the opposite wall, and found the streets of the city filled with dozens of the newly risen dead. The zombies lurched almost randomly down the avenues, weapons hanging limply by their sides. The Lich turned to Yuranos, unphased by the man’s contorted form, as more kept flowing out onto the battlements from the levels beneath. He said only “I grow tired of watching your little friends do battle. I would much rather test my legion against your might”. With this challenge, the mist seemed to turn and flow from all directions towards Yuranos, and with its change the aimless pack of undead turned suddenly as well. Those in the streets seemed to suddenly storm towards the castle, the mist flowing like a constant river around them. And the dozen or so already atop the battlements lunged for him, weapons singing through the air.

OoC: Kind of sparse, yes, but I felt I should try and join the proper fray.