Name: James Reddy Height: 6'3" Weight: 185 Kg Age: 27 Occupation; Action Games Referee Weapons: None. Clothes: Black pants, a black and white stripped shirt and a black cap. Appearance: Brown hair, blue eyes and fair skinned.
Intro: Today was a good day. Lots of fights to watch and he didn't ever have to get attacked. He put on his black cap and began to wait for the first match.
This was harder than I first expected...But here it is.
I wonder why Darth Mobius, Laranexis, and Khedive Rex haven't posted their bio's yet? Could they have forgotten? I wonder what it would take to remind them...
Apologies for the shamelessness. I just think this would be awesome if more people participated.
I'm not that good at writing long and engaging posts (and I should warn you this would be my first RP) but I'll give this a try if you're still looking for more people. Will post character sheet once I finish writing it. (might take a while)
Edit: And Logician, what's with all the apologies?
The Iron Ninja: I'm not that good at writing long and engaging posts (and I should warn you this would be my first RP) but I'll give this a try if you're still looking for more people. Will post character sheet once I finish writing it. (might take a while)
Edit: And Logician, what's with all the apologies?
Humorous effect, mostly. There's another reason, but I'm feeling to lazy to explain it right now.
Age: speculated to be between five and one hundred and twenty seven years of age.
Height: 5'9
Weight: At times as light as a feather, at other times as heavy as a sack of bricks.
Weapons: Diamond edged Spatula forged in part using the techniques of an ancient Japanese sword smith also has a bandoleer with three shurikens, one Kunai (ninja throwing knife) and five custom made cigars (not really a weapon, but worth mentioning)
Clothes: Black Ninjitsu clothing for the most part, except for a large white chef hat (which may well be hiding a secret weapon of sorts), owing to poor design, his Ninja face mask covers his eyes completely, a disadvantage the Iron Ninja has had many years to adapt to.
Backstory: Mortimer's parents threw him out of the hospital window five days after he was born. It was not the best of starts for young Mortimer, for whom life would not be easy for the years to come either. He spent his first few years of life in the company of shrews. Hunting and eating earthworms, beetles, mice and the occasional bird. He grew quickly, and soon the Shrews could not catch enough to feed him, so he set out on the great journey that continues for him to this day. By chance one day, he stowed away aboard a ship heading for the mystical Island of Japan. Once there he quickly became known for his epic battles with the various robots, giant mutant animals and (reputedly) Domo. It was apparently Domo, once bested in combat, that saw the potential for this young boy (barely five years of age). He took Mortimer to a secret mountaintop temple, where an old and wizened man had been waiting. He saw that Mortimer was the boy that he had been waiting for all these years straight away, and immediately began to tutor him in the various arts of Ninjitsu and Cooking. Mortimer learnt quickly, and after seven years of learning he was ready to spread the justice of the Ninja Chef code. He set out to rid the world of tyranny and injustice with the legendary Spatula that was held in the temple for thousands of years, awaiting his arrival. But unfortunately for Mortimer the world was now a very different place. Gone were the shoguns and the giant robots. Gone were the Samurai and radioactive animals. In their place were cars, Televisions and Portable computers, the world no longer had any use for Ninja. Dejected, Mortimer turned to his other love, cooking. He hosted a Japanese cooking show called "Iron Ninja Chef" for many years, before the sponsors grew tired of him beheading the contestants and removed the Ninja aspect of the show. Mortimer, forcibly retited, now spends his days in a one room apartment, watching old tapes of his former glory. He knows that If he wishes to make a comeback in show business, he will either need to break some necks or get some cash, but preferably both.
Strengths: -Quick to adapt -Speed, evasiveness and sneakiness of a Ninja. -Not too shabby at cooking
Weaknesses: -Never had a proper education -Has limited visibility with a mask on (but enhanced visibility with the mask off) -Prone to tantrums. -Confused by big words. -Thinks that armour is for sissies and doesn't believe in bullets.
Intro: The figure sat on the mouldy chair impassively, no light was on in the small room apart from the glow of the small television that occupied the space in front of him. On the television was Richard Simmons, stirring a cocktail of eggs and chicken heads with one hand, while franticly beating away his attacker with the other. The figure's eyes watered a little as the sound of Simmons's screams emitted from the set. The dark figure on the set, having decapitated his foe, held the head of Richard Simmons aloft and cried "Today's secret Ingredient was...Pain" before the screen switched to a grey fuzz with the words 'we are experiencing some technical difficulties, please bear with us', beside the words there was a picture of a bear with it's hands on it's head. The tape then finished and the television fell into static. The figure switched the set off and stood up. "Won't you get hurt trying to find your way in the dark?" remarked a voice yet unseen. Mortimer turned to the sound, "How long have you been here?" The newcomer stepped out of the shadows "Oh i've always been here Mort, you just didn't know it" It was too dark to make out any of the stranger's features, but Mortimer could tell from his accent the man was Japanese in origin. "Are you a Ninja?" he asked, the stranger nodded "One of the best." Mortimer steadied himself "Then you are here to kill me?" The stranger took a while to answer, as if he wasn't sure himself "No... I came to give you a second chance." Mortimer sat down again "What is it you want then?" The stranger moved across the room, though Mortimer didn't even see his legs moving, "I represent higher sources Mortimer, it's not what I want, it's what they want" He tossed at photograph at Mortimer's lap. It was of a man encased in blue armour, topped off with a horned helmet. The face was not visible through the visor. Mortimer turned the photograph over in his hands, the words 'Rome, Collosseum' were written neatly in red ink on the back. Mortimer looked up from the photo at the stranger "What do they want from him?" "They want him dead, there is a tournament, join it, kill him. And you will have your cooking show back." Mortimer thought for a minute before looking up from the photo again and saying "I'll do it." But the stranger was gone, though he did hear a distant voice say "I know you will."
The plane journey over to Italy was not very comfortable. A young child was repeatedly kicking the back of his seat, in protest to the in flight movie, which was Meet the Spartans . Mortimer found the movie to also be pretentious, but refrained from beheading anyone, even if only to show that he was more mature than the little punk behind him. A group of flight attendants were standing around him at all times, which Mortimer thought was a bit unfair for the other passengers. One of the crew knelt down to ask him a question "why can't you take off that black mask sir?", Mortimer rolled his eyes, then remembered that she couldn't see he was doing so and replied "I'm a Ninja madam, I don't ever remove my mask." He shuffled around in his seat to try and remedy the cramp that had developed, the flight attendants all jumped back. The more courageous one stepped forward again. "Sir? do you think you could store your suitcase in one of the overhead lockers please?" Mortimer opened the suitcase, inside was his spatula, and the hat... Mortimer thougt for a second, then decided he shouldn't put it on just yet. He placed the two objects on the seat beside him and stood up to put the suitcase into the locker. 'I'll never understand why they make me do this' he thought, 'You'd think they hadn't seen a Ninja before.'
Edit: Added this bit in when I realised we were starting from the third round story wise
The Collosseum looked a bit different from what he remembered. Wooden scaffolding covered much of the outside, where teams of italian builders were hammering busily away at the ancient stone, putting up cables to the three giant floodlights that now perched ominously above the old stadium. It looked somewhat tacky, covering the old with the new, but Mortimer brushed his disgust aside and found the door marked 'pariticipants'. Inside the air was full with the smell of sweat. Over twenty fighters were training in a makeshift dojo. There was a polished wooden desk in the middle of it all, piles of neatly stacked paperwork adorned it and behind this sat a thin, bespectacled old man, who seemed to be waiting. A small paper note hung from the ceiling above the desk, in neat, black handwriting were the words 'reception'. Mortimer strode cautiously towards the desk, taking care to avoid the sweaty mass of fighters as they swung clumsily at the training dummies. Reaching the desk, Mortimer opened his mouth to speak, ut the thin man beat him to it, "Jorgensen?" Suprised, Mortimer almost took a step backwards "er, yes." The man nodded and ticked one of the many peices of paper splayed out infront of him "Your coach already registered for you, he said you were bringing a... weapon" The man's voice noticibaly changed tone at the word 'weapon', as if he disliked even just saying such a word. He scooped up a peice of paper and held up a clipboard "I need to register what weapons you will be using, could you please empty them on to the desk." The spatula was placed on the desk, the man excamined it for a second before feverishly writing on his forn, speaking as he wrote "one... tempered stainless steel spatula..." He glanced up at Mortimer breifly before adding "diamond edged." Mortimer pulled the weaponry off his bandoleer and dropped them ont the desk, then opened the suitcase and gently placed the hat down onto the desk as well. "Three... five bladed shurikens, one... Kunai..." The man then stopped "A chef hat?" Mortimer nodded, but the man shook his head "A hat is not a weapon sir, it is an item of clothing" He moved his eyes to the three cigars hanging loosely from the bandoleer and calmly asked "Do those cigars explode?" Mortimer looked down at them "No, just ordinary cigars" The man nodded slowly, then stamped the form and handed him his weapons back "You will find a small locker in which to put to put your personal effects down the hall to the right sir, please remember that fighting is reserved for inside the arena."
The locker was small, it had an accompanying single shelf and a stone bench. Mortimer took the hat out of the suitcase and held it with both hands, took a deep breath, then pulled it down over his head. Immediately the deep and hollow voice came rushing back into his mind "Didn't I tell you this day would come Mort?" mocked the hat of souls, "you swore off me, but you will always need to fight, and for that, you will always need me." Mort almost fell over from the rush of power emiting from the hat, he responded in his thoughts 'I don't have a choice hat, if I had my way you would be floating in the breeze somewhere as particularly evil ashes, but you know full well why I can't do that.' The hat chuckled "Did you like the suprise? My mind is now a part of your's now Mort, you kill me and you'll soon follow suit." Mort flinched as the hat began to pour over his recent memories, it was an all too familiar feeling. The hat laughed "Oh dear, gone all nostalgic and bitter of late I see... So, our mark is this big armoured fellow then?" Mort nodded, then spun at the sound of creaking iron joints, behind him was his mark, turned away, tending to his own locker. The hat surged power into Mort's legs, he was already halfway across the room before Mortimer regained control, even then he struggled with his own legs to stop from moving forward more 'No! we can't just kill him off anywhere, it has to be in the arena.' Mort instantly regained control as the hat spoke "Bloody rules..."
If this isn't serious enough I could probably try writing another one.
Oh good, I was begining to think the thread was over before it even started. PM me when you have enough fellows to start.
Edit: Of course I could just periodically check myself... Oh and If I could have any preferences I would like to face ultra joe in one of the latter stages when it would be more epic.
I think I'll enter Applesauce Pete into this, hell, I can just keep going from RP to RP putting up new backround info on him, and eventually I'll have an entire biography, watch this post.
EDIT: My bio should be up sometime tomorrow, gotta sleep
I'll make Sozia a judge if you like. Does she just pick the fighter she likes best based on style? Sorry, that's probably up there somewhere, but I fell off a motorcycle a couple days ago and I'm still a little messed up.
Sorrow, I was thinking that if we can't get enough people to play than maybe everyone could have two characters. That way there will be enough fights to go around ya see.
Sorrow, I was thinking that if we can't get enough people to play than maybe everyone could have two characters. That way there will be enough fights to go around ya see.
No, I'm not quite sure that would work. What happens if you end up facing your own char?
Sorrow, I was thinking that if we can't get enough people to play than maybe everyone could have two characters. That way there will be enough fights to go around ya see.
No, I'm not quite sure that would work. What happens if you end up facing your own char?
Apologies, but it's just my thought.
You could design the Tournament Ladder so that no one could possibly end up using both their characters up to the final. And I doubt that anyone could be so good that they get both characters through to the final.
I don't think I could manage two fighting characters at once. Why don't the judges make fighting characters as well? then it could be up to whoever wasn't fighting to judge each match?
Edit: At least for the first rounds, after that the judges could be whoever had been killed off.
One character/duo each. Two would be a bit much to manage. Counting Mobius and Larenxis, we have 10 fighters. It will be enough for a three-round tournament. Not particularly long, but hopefully enough to generate interest for a future, 16- or 32-man brawl.
Name: Jackie Rackham Occupation: Former veteran mercenary. Currently an asylum patient. Age: Late 30's Height: 5'8 Weight: 145 lbs
Equipment: His attire is never consistent, most usually consisting of long, loose, and unkempt battle dress uniforms, often attaching keepsakes, trinkets, and body parts to it. His weaponry applies to this dress code, but habitually has consisted of blades.
Strengths: -His mind is broken, leaving him unpredictable, movement and action alike. He cannot be persuaded, bargained with, or even fully spoken to. Mental attacks do not affect him. -Flexible, rawboned form, very athletic. -Has an uncanny disregard for injury, appears to live as long as his brain functions. -Improvises, anything can be used to kill.
Weaknesses: -His broken mind is also a weakness, as he makes poor decisions and acts on his unseen fantasies, relying highly on "sparks of ingenuity" to succeed. -Has painfully realistic flashbacks. -Not exceptionally accurate and very jittery. Does not excel at ranged attack in any way.
Back-story: A sizable memoir could be written solely by what has been said of this man's life. Though much of it is merely rumour and hear-say, told by other mercs in venerating stories. These aren't worth mentioning, and despite these exaggerations, what can be accounted for as "true" is likely this. Born some time during the early seventies in a small Irish village to a father who was once a member of the IRA, who believed the UK had too much control. He kept a small militia of faithfuls and had trained his son from an early age on the art of combat. Through unknown events, the group had been eliminated, arrested, or disbanded, his father had disappeared and Jack had been adopted by yet another militia. From there is unnecessary retellings of the masses of men he had killed and the eccentricity in his behaviour. He had always been strange, but during his last recorded mission (A high paying mass-murder commissioned by a wealthy man playing a Death Pool game.) to Dunwich, he had become moonstruck mad, shown by killing people left and right in a spree ending after two hours with 58 dead, all of them mutilated in very "artistic" fashions. He was found curled in a corner with a hideous grin on his face, eyes rolling and darting in every direction, blood on every inch of his body. He would only repeat, in staccato glee, "they flop and slosh, they fly and float, they make the sky and the air we breathe". He now resides in a medium-security home for the "impaired" in the US. He has begun reciting non-sense recently, and usually only does two things: Talk, and kill new people.
Intro:
"Bah! Bills, bills and more bills, debts and more damned debts!" The manager groaned, squealing with anger at the end.
"Jesus, Mary AND Joseph, this month'll be the end of me!" He had worked in this prison, turned restaurant, turned mental home for TWENTY years. NOW he runs out of cash? Fuming angrily, he is stopped when the intern rings in.
"You've a visitor, sir".
"Ahg!... yea, let 'em in".
A small snappily dressed man enters, at that moment he speaks: "Good afternoon, sir, sorry if I have interrupted anything, but I have a favour to ask of you".
The manager doesn't look away from his bills, replying: "Yea yea, what?"
"Sir, we have reason to believe that one "Jack Rackham", the "Dunwich Ripper" is in your care. An infamous mercenary and an excellent... fighter".
Looking up now, the manager says: "Yea, that loony that killed half my staff a month ago".
"Yes, well my "private" contractors would wish for him to participate in a tournament taking place at the Colloseum of Rome".
"Hmm, what's in it for me?"
"What is it you would like, sir?"
"I don' know. How much 're you willin' ta offer?"
"As much as you would like. High as you can count."
"Hmm... one million?"
"Done. Now if we c-"
"Waitwaitwait, FIVE... million."
"Done. I trust the patient is well, in fighting shape?"
"...Yea, for a guy that don' eat or sleep, he sure can kick an ass. Or rip a throat and decorate my God-damn walls with it... here he is." The manager flips on a security feed on the television on his desk, displaying each room, as he flips towards Jack's room he almost falls out of his seat. Jackie is staring directly into the camera, expectantly. He begins:
"A skein left unmended has fallen, a pain so apalling that you have defended, a salmon skips 'round the hay, a birdy pips in to say: Demure faces on timurous maces, shown there by bemused laces of rye, which goes good with pie, and a side of tie on your suit, with shoes at the root of all evil is this: Respite is good and all, but requite is so much more better than pie..."
Hope it isn't too long!
EDIT: (Wow, too much focus on blood, I dunno, i'll fix that later.)
Alright, allow me to apologize for not posting my character for so long. School is starting up my way and I find I have less and less time. That being said, I still intend to participate in this mostly because (I understand) it will be low-commitment.
My character will appear in this post.
EDIT: So, I lied. I'll do a character as soon as I wake up tommorrow. It's like 3 out my way and I've been debating all day. My brain is numb.
I understand it as, we each post our 'version' of how the battle went, and the most interesting/inventive/awesome, wins. Correct me if I'm wrong Sorrow.
Name: Ashlen Entity: Fire Elemental Age: 51 (very young) Height: 4'11 Weight: 250 lbs (in her humanoid form) Abilities: Made from fire and charcoal. You might not want to touch her due to heat, though this is controllable, as well as her shape, form and weight. Has infinite resources of fire inside her which she can bring out to torch anything. Can become pure fire, hot enough to melt just about anything.
Description: Looks like a young girl with only her eyes to reveal much experience, Ashlen was born from the combined flames of a demon and the phoenix. Rejected, no one wanted to teach her the ways of the world. Forced to wander in search of an identity, in search for herself, she has sought friends even in mortals. They all seem to die off in some (fiery) way or another. Her surface is made of rock hard charcoal with cracks of fire along it.
Intro: Overhearing of a tournament when walking the streets of Rome disguised in her brown robes, Ashlen sought to find strong entities for companionship to ease her loneliness. Perhaps here she could find one who would not perish from such silly things as being tackled by a car. She was certainly not fond of attracting attention, but perhaps it was time to change tactics. At least here she would not stand out too much from the crowd and ventured thus forth to sign up for the event. Greeted by a shining man in a suit, he motioned for her to sign a contract to relieve them of any responsibility, should she get hurt. Perhaps he didn't know she could communicate in his ways, but she signed it by burning an "X" into it, not saying a word, after reading it carefully, surprised to not find any fine print. He seemed like most mortals to her; slimy, trying to sell something by putting on a façade behaviour and a bleached grin. Shown to some kind of quarters by some kind of servant, Ashlen stepped in and let the servant leave the room, closing the door. Leaping out the open window, Ashlen let the robe flail to land on a chair in the room and flew out into the sky to return when the tournament would begin.
Well, The reason I didn't make up a character is because I was waiting to find out if I would be working or not... I will be. This means I will have no internet for the next few days, so I will not be playing.
Name: Khedive Rex Moniker:Khedive Rex Occupation: Vigilante Age: 31 Height: 6'10 Weight: 190 Weapons: An ebony War Hammer named Tauq. Charles the Albino Sloth. Appearance: Black silk dress pants and a black silk dress shirt. He wears no armor, instead relying on stealth and agility to avoid harm. He carries Tauq slung across his back and Charles hangs peacefully from his left arm. On his left hip he also holds a 44. Magnum with ammo in a holster, but that is Charles' weapon.
Name: Charles Moniker:Charles Occupation: Sidekick/Companion. Age: 6 Height: 3'4 Weight: 70 Weapons: A modified 44. Magnum. He aims it slowly but rarely misses. He may also lash out with his claws if he has no other option. Appearance: Charles is a young albino sloth. His fur is pure white and he's ussually found hanging off Khedive Rex's arm.
Bio:Khedive Rex and Charles patrol the shadows of one of the largest metropoli in (whatever country this takes place in). They bring justice to the weak by punishing the powerful. They have fought criminals, they have fought crimelords, they have fought beurocrats and corrupt politicians. Khedive Rex does not care for legality and Charles does not care for much of anything. It is rare to see either attempting to right petty crimes. Street thefts and grafitti don't capture their attention. Only truly great crimes, or truly great crimes in the making, drive this team to action. They think of themselves as the "Last Great Defense" to be used when there is simply no other option; well, Khedive Rex thinks this. Charles acts less out of a personal agenda and more as a result of his freindship with Khedive Rex
They met when they were still simply Khedive Rex and unnamed sloth, in a forest in south America. Rex had only recently finished his study of meditation at the Tibetan temple of Kun'pha and was travelling the slums of the world on a quest to discover deep inner truths. The monks had taught him to control his mind and body in unison as well as to reach various superior levels of conciousness. When he reaches very deep states of meditation he can even turn invisible or heal (though, the invisibility is somewhat overstated. He's still visible to those with an exceptionally keen eye or clear head but is extremely difficult to notice otherwise. The eye just glazes over him.) and in lesser states (ones he can preserve while remaining active.) he is aware of the presence and location of sentient minds. Seated resolutely on the forest floor, he noticed an intelligent being moving slowly toward his position. When he went to investigate, he found the sloth he would later call Charles. They grew to be stalwart friends.
Today, they live in secret at the heart of the city. There are stories on the tounges of street ears and passers-by of a well dressed man and a weird white monkey leading a campaign against the corrupt and tyranical; but that is it. Stories. Khedive Rex and Charles operate below the radar and prefer it that way. It's the only way they know.
Intro: A stone-faced man in a fine gray suit strode with purpose to the very middle of the alley, stopping cold and motionless. He seemed truely out of place, like a marble statue at an desolate and deserted ghost town.
"Sir!" He shouted without any emotion in his voice. A moments pause ensued before the man turned 90 degrees and once more shouted
"Sir!" The voice echoed across the alley and bounced fluidly between the walls. The man had created a great ocean from his voice, waves laping back and forth. And now the fish were swimming toward him.
Another turn and another mighty but expressionless "Sir!" brought the man face to face with a group of disheveled and harrassed street dwellers. The unoffical leader, a scraggly man weilding a peice of pipe and an atrocious odor, came forward and asked all too casually "dude, why you shoutin'?"
A turn. "Sir!"
"Man, you don't turn away from me when I ask you a question! No what are you doing here?"
"Sir!"
"I don't think you understand! You don't belong here! We're goin' to have to send you back to where you came from!"
The pause was slightly longer this time. The man seemed to recognize the potential assailants. Turning to observe them distantly as a scientist observes a specimen, he spoke in softly and definitely, "Sir, I will kill them all if you don't listen to my propsal."
A tenseness filled the air of the alley as the stone-faced man and street dwellers locked gazes. The latter began to form a circle around the former and both regarded the other as an unfortunate casualty. Time passed and the circle grew closer around the stone-faced man, his expression still absolute. When the first blow was struck it was to the knee of the man in the suit, but his exression remained resolute. It wasn't until the fight was in full swing and he was losing that his arrogant expression began to fade. And 10 minutes later as he lay in a ball on the alley floor, his suit coat and fancy shoes gone. His wallet emptied and cast aside, he grunted through a fat lip "Youb knew I was bwluffing. Howb?"
It was a fully content voice that answered happily "Bluffing about what sir?"
The stone-faced man started and look up surprised to see his quarry standing right in front of him. A tall man in black dress clothes supporting a small white sloth stood at the side of the alley, observing the scene with casually raised eyebrows. An expression almost of professional interest. "Do youb mean youb wberen't lisdening?" he growled angrily.
"I wasn't here until five minutes ago. I heard some shouting but somehow I doubt that's what you wanted me to hear." The man responded pleasently.
"Youb wberen't even here"? "Why would I be"? "Everyone said youb wbould be here". "Then you chose unreliable sources of information". "Wbhy didn't youb stop them beating me"? "It isn't my business who they beat up". "Youb protect people". "I protect people who deserve it. You're trying to pit otherwise innocent people against each other in fights to the death for your own entertainment." "Ah, then youb knobw wbhy I'm here"? "I can guess".
The man stood from the ground and cleaned his face. "Youb are very wbell informed". "Yes." Khedive Rex responded. The two men faced each other from across the alley. Charles pulled his gun from Rex's holster. There was obviously a time limit on this conversation.
"My name is Grant, I want youb to be part of the tournament." Grant began. "No, I don't think I will." Khedive Rex responded. "There will be bwad people at this tournament." the Grant continued. "You will make bad people as a result of this tournament." Rex replied. "Surely it's your job to deal with the bad guys we create." Grant uttered quickly as Charles gun neared ever closer to his position. "I kill because it's nessacary, not because I've been called to."
As the gun lowered to it's final position aimed at Grant's neck, he shouted carefully "Perhaps its nessacary now!"
Charles shot never rang. Instead, the gun hung stationary in the air as Rex's head hung low. After a long pause, he raise it and said slowly. "I'll be there. Now leave"
Grant wiped some sweat from his brow and turned to leave the alley. As he neared the opening onto the street he looked back. Khedive Rex still stood to the side of the alley. In the dark. His head hung low.
"What do you think, Grant?" The sight was quite impressive, Grant had to admit, but he was in no mood to please his boss. He was still nursing the concussion that damned girl had given him (it had taken five competitors to keep him from strangling her after he learned what had happened) as well as several bruises, broken bones, and more than a few busted teeth. The Colosseum was completely modernized; there was enough seating for thousands, snack stands, advanced lighting, even a Jumbotron with immense speakers. "Real nice. Give me my damn paycheck." Hugo laughed and clapped Grant on the shoulder, the impact sending fresh waves of pain through Grant's head. "Enjoy the show. This box has coffee, soft drinks, and booze over in the back. Help yourself. I've got to go give a little pep talk."
The sixty-four competitors were mingling, some talking, some laughing, and some just sharpening weapons down in the new locker room under the Colosseum. They quieted at the approach of Hugo. The executive clapped his hands together. "Welcome! I'm Hugo Armstrong, owner of the Combat, Violence, and Hurting Channel on cable. The man who met most of you was my associate, Mr. Grant. You all are going to be famous for fighting here. We'll even give you royalties for merchandise based off of you." He gave a sly grin. "That is, if you survive to collect it." Some competitors laughed. Some just glared at Armstrong. "Now," he continued, "you can win in three ways: knockout, five-second pin, or fatality. This is a single elimination tournament, with an emphasis on 'elimination'. The brackets are on the wall. The winner will receive five million dollars." Many of the competitors cheered. "Don't tell Grant, though," warned Armstrong, "or he might just slit the throat of whoever wins and take it." There was no laughter. He was dead serious. "Now, get up there and kick some ass!"
The many members of the audience were talking excitedly or reading the program that showed the many fighters. Suddenly, a huge, deep rumble emanated from the Jumbotron. Music could be heard from the speakers, low at first, but bursting into loud guitarwork. The crowd erupted. They fall in line, one at a time, ready to play (I can't see them anyway) No time to lose, we've got to move, steady your hand (I am losing sight again) Fire your guns, it's time to run, blow me away (I will stay unless I may) After the fall, we'll shake it off, show me the way Only the strongest will survive Lead me to Heaven when we die I am a shadow on the wall I'll be the one to save us all "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO THE COLOSSEUM!!" shouted the announcer. The crowd was screaming. "ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?!" The crowd obviously was.
The first few rounds went smoothly with no fatalities, thanks to the three referees. Eventually, only the strongest remained. The real show began now.
Alright, let's begin. The matchups are set, and will be revealed one at a time (you should be able to see the pattern after two or three matches). -Try to avoid fatalities (unless you and your opponent agree beforehand to allow them). If you lose, you can make a spectator entry explaining what happens after your character(s) loss. -Judges, PM me your verdict on each battle.
MATCH ONE "Ladies and gentlemen, this has been a vicious tourney, and only the ones with mettle are left. Get ready for the next match!" "On one side, a man always ready to hammer his point home: Khedive Rex!" "On the other side, a man of few words and fewer morals: Erik the Dread!"
*Mills Lane voice* I want a good, clean fight. NOW LET'S GET IT ON!
Did I type referee? Damn. I meant judge...Would I still need a character for that?