[center][h3][color=138808]Knight Sylvestre[/color][/h3] Location: the Neighborhood [@GreenGoat][/center] While rummaging in his little sack to make sure his provisions were secure, Cyril happened to touch the overlarge screw again. Even glancing off its surface with his knuckle sent a shiver down his arm and into his spine, not of cold but of something more akin to queasiness. It just felt [i]off[/i]. Leaning against a crate of melons, he pulled the freaky object from the bag and stared at it with tired eyes. “What the hell are you?” he questioned in a whisper, turning it over in his hands. It wouldn't phase into his skin if he touched its column with a part of his body that wasn't big enough. Cyril got the distinct impression that the object didn't just slide into the body as a form of hands-free safekeeping. There must be some sort of trick; his experiences back home convinced him. In their efforts to manipulate, oppress, and destroy humanity by whatever means necessary, some of the cleverer and more magical demons created talismans or other enchanted objects infested with all manner of hexes and curses. He knew that another squad in the army had found and sacrificed itself to destroy a mirror that, when used by a human to view his or her reflection, corrupted the human into a demon monstrosity based on his or her own sinfulness. Was this screw a cursed object? The announcer had said to stick it in his head. Knowing him, Oren had been joking, mocking, or both, but maybe he had been telling him how to use it. The screw felt heavy in Cyril's hands. Something new had occurred to him. The tournament's organizers wouldn't just hand him something to kill himself with. Even if it did something horrible to him, if it helped him win and fulfill his wish, wouldn't he take it anyway? The scope of his dream lay far beyond his own life, sanity, or dignity. Was there anything he really wouldn't do to bring about an end to all evil? Such thoughts troubled him. After all, he couldn't even be sure that the Crucible would really grant a wish, and that was just the start. Breathing deeply, the vanguard tightened his hand around the head of the screw. “God, don't let this hero's journey turn me into a monster. Please.” [i]Ding-dong[/i] The tone—the sound that played when he walked through the Grocer's automatic doors. Someone was here. After tying his sack and pushing it beneath a produce shelf, Cyril grabbed his glaive and with a flourish brought it into running position. He moved, quick and quiet as his armor allowed, toward the building's front entrance. If not for the clamor of his gear, he might have tried to stay quiet and observe the newcomer, but he knew that after being taken unaware like this there was nothing to do but to face the unknown head-on. Halberd in his left and screw in his right, he rounded the corner of an aisle and slid to a stop on the polished brownstone floor. Before him stood a woman with black hair, clad in flowing white and red and bearing eye-catching musculature in the one arm she appeared to have. Her right bicep, her fingers, and both of her bare hips featured an astonishing amount of scarring. One word flashed through Cyril's mind: [i]tough[/i]. The ruggedness of her physique made for a serious contrast with her stark, somewhat ceremonial clothing, and to the vanguard it warned of dangerous latent power. He didn't imagine a threatening attitude would get him far with her, but he felt compelled to represent as well as he could a resolute knight, weary and detached perhaps but not lacking in fortitude. Raising his halberd up, he slammed its butt on the shiny floor, and from beneath his bristling mustache asked in a loud voice, “Have you come for my soul?” [center][h3]The Fungal Knight[/h3] Location: Amusement Mile – Echoed Dead Man's Rock [@Banana][/center] In contemplative quiet Oren heard the skeleton out. Ranting about clowns typically did not bode well for one's sanity, but the announcer treated Bonesword's report as though it contained the murmurings of a saint. After every pause he interjected an insightful yet somewhat patronizing, “Hm!” but before long Bonesword had nothing left to tell. “Magic cannibal clowns, huh...? Well, that might explain the other things our radar has been picking up beside the choppers and the big one, if they're also evil aliens with flying saucers. Even for the Crucible, that's pretty in-'tents'. Circus tents, that is. Not past tents, but future tents.” Oren did not care so much for specific aspects of clown physiology or psychology as he did their abilities, movements through the city, and implications. If all these clowns wanted to do was to eat people, they'd starve to death in a city populated solely by powerful fighters, if they didn't die trying to snag a snack or two. In that case they stood as little more than another wave of mooks, but Oren couldn't help but figure that there might be something more to these clowns than met the eye. Bonesword asked if he could give his thoughts on the 'echoes', and Oren punctuated his reflexive shrug with a sigh of exasperation. “It's your time, buddy. Do what you want with it. I don't know if you'll have figured out any more in a night than the College Researches did in a hundred or so, but who knows. It might even be kinda 'humerus' to hear you try! Neheheheh...” [center][h3]The Blood Devil[/h3] Location: Offshore Shipwreck [@RoughDragon1][/center] 'Slithering' wasn't quite right to describe the noise that grew louder and louder, more and more intense, homing in on Saria's position. It sounded more like ripping: the indiscriminate, heedlessly brutal tearing of everything in the path of an unstoppable force. The ship itself shook, moaning and rocking like a diseased animal, until from its guts the infestation surged forth. A black mass, far too large for the passage it took, exploded out of the boat's main deck. It shot skyward, a dizzyingly fast tree sprouting from steel, and as a tree would it branched outward. In the light of day the shape became apparent. Evocative of a snake, it far more closely resembled a living nightmare, for from its main body dozens of other trunks split off in different directions to become fanged heads. The aberration's maws -and there were many- did not adhere to the typical hinge-like arrangement most mouths followed, and instead opened in myriad directions often too stuffed with fangs and smaller snakes to even come close to closing. Heads, it seemed, were not necessary for mouths to exist, and many split the mottled, corrupted scales themselves. Venom-drenched fangs stuck at random from the hideous thing's armored exterior, causing toxins to drip down its body to be flicked at by the countless forked tongues. The air became filled with a bowel-churning, hair-raising rasp, a chorus of tortured, hateful hisses and noises simply unidentifiable. Steam rose from the wretched hide of the Writhing Worm, exposed as it was to the pacifying light, but any reprieve would be a long time coming. With agonizing slowness, the abominable serpent bent toward Saria, its howl low and full of raw, bestial fury. The ship continued to shake, heavy vibrations coming from down below. A half-dozen heads cracked wide to issue forth razor-sharp, predatory shrieks before shooting forward to bury themselves in Saria's body. [center][h3]Gaben's Chosen[/h3] Location: Flooded Governance Hub [@Hostile][/center] Mountain's explanation of his vehicle's make earned a scoffing noise from his artificial heart. “Yeah, well, sounds like nonsense to me, pal. Water's got to be a foot deep on some of those streets. If I didn't know better I'd say you're cheating...or maybe your power is reality bending to make things as convenient as possible? Gotta add that to my list...” A few minutes passed. When he made the request for additional information, Oren's voice turned smug. “Why, no, friend! I don't mind at all if you want to spend your second call to get some additional info. Here's the scoop: the place looks like a parliament building, Classical-style, but it's actually an art gallery. Big, weird statues out front. They're all moderny. As for the artifact, well...we haven't recovered it yet, or really gotten a good look, but we know it's in a sculpture just inside the gallery's main entrance. Happy hunting!” The line went dead, leaving Mountain alone with the sounds of a high-strung motor and splashing water. [center][h3]Blackjack[/h3] Location: the Village [@Deadnaut][/center] More than a little annoyed at the audacious music being blasted by Teller, and at being obliged to shout through it in reply, the announcer offered the soldier a succinct response. “Leave the Village! Head toward the tallest buildings! He's near what's left of Main Street, having fun with the new residents!” As soon as possible, Oren cut the line, leaving Teller to find his opponent more or less on his own.