Doc Doctor

SLAM - Pollen Vs. Doc

Catskull Maclung

Name: Catskull Maclung
Epithet: The Ghost
Age: 33
Height: 6'4"
Weight: 246 pounds
Boxing Reach: 80.0 in
Race: Human
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Dominant Hand: Left
Weapons and Equipment-

*All of Catskull's weapons are fashioned from high grade Damascus steel.

*An Italian three ring rapier with a one inch spiked pommel and the following specifications-
Overall Length: 47.2''
Blade: 38'' x .8''
Weight: 2 lb 8.8 oz
P.O.B.: 5 1/8''
Thickness: 6.1 mm - 5 mm
Width: 22.3 mm
Grip Length: 3 1/4''



*A Dane sword with the following specifications-
Overall length: 58" (147 cm)
Blade length: 42" (106.7 cm)
Blade width at base: 1.4" (3.5 cm)
CoG: 4" (10.2 cm)
CoP: 24.5" (62.2 cm)
Weight: 4 lbs 10 oz (2.1 kg)



*A three pound hand axe with an 18" shaft and a 5.5" long, 3.5" wide blade on the right side of his belt.

*A 16" X 16" five pound targe buckler strapped to his right forearm with five 5" spikes.

*Two twelve ounce throwing knives, each 12" long with a 6" blade. One is concealed in a sheath strapped to his right forearm and the other is strapped to his left.

*A six ounce stiletto with a nine inch blade strapped to the inside of his shield.

*A rope tied about his waist just below his leather belt.

*A black steel helm fitted firmly to his head.


*Steel plating inside the knuckles of his leather gloves, inside his boots, and over his knees.

*Beneath his robes is a full layer of steel scale armor (complete with pauldrons) with another layer of pleated leather armor under that, reaching from his ankles to his neckline. His full armor weighs in at a total of 39 pounds.

Appearance- Catskull is a large, dark-eyed, pale-skinned man with rugged, imposing facial features and a black bowl cut. He's of a powerful, sturdy build, but not at the detriment of his speed.

Physical Abilities/Powers-

Physical Ability-
*Catskull's speed and agility have reached the limit of human potential. His reaction time and reflexes can be compared to those of the world's greatest competitive fighters. His strength rivals that of history's greatest weightlifters. His blows are of such power that he can kill a normal man with a single unarmed punch to the head, and with his sword can split a human from head to sternum.

Powers-
*Chronomancy- Catskull can extend his presence into the fourth dimension, creating an alternate timeline. Each new branch of reality composes a scenario in which he performs a potentially different action, in essence, creating an entirely new fight in another dimension alongside the original. Any damage Catskull or his opponent endure in another dimension is reflected throughout all the branches, including the original. As an example, he can throw a punch and decide to create a new timeline where he throws a kick instead. The opponent in the original timeline can react to the punch, and the opponent in the branching timeline can react to the kick. If the opponent in the second timeline gets hit by the kick though, that effect will manifest in all the timelines, thus harming the opponent in the original timeline as if they had just suffered the damage of an unseen kick, minus the kinetic energy. The kinetic energy from multidimensional contact does *not* transfer over, only the biological damage as it resolves. Each Catskull in his own timeline can create new timelines, once every two seconds, but the maximum number of timelines shall be limited to how many are agreed upon Out-Of-Character, as each one would be its own individual fight.
Each timeline can last for up to one hour starting at the time it was made, and if Catskull wants to remove a timeline(s), it'll take him five seconds to do so. After five seconds of preparing to remove a dimension(s), he must use it or lose it, or otherwise be forced to prepare for another five seconds. Removing a timeline does not negate the damage he has taken from it, and he cannot remove the original timeline. Catskull gains the experience from branching fights due to his multidimensional awareness, whereas the opponent will not. All the Catskulls share information as it occurs.
In this way Catskull can potentially finish fights very quickly, or potentially die just as fast if he's careless. He cannot use his 4D awareness and chronomancy to alter the past.

*Catskull's presence and intent cannot be read by any three dimensional supernatural sense. This is because he's a being who sits on the border of possibility and reality, and thus, it's impossible to predict what he'll do out of the infinite potential variations that don't yet exist.

Personality- Sometimes good guys don't wear white. Catskull is not a kind man, nor a reasonable man, nor a sane man. He's diabolically intelligent, able to coordinate the actions of his temporal clones with ease, and prides himself on being a cultured, educated warrior. He values class and social standing, is well-spoken, and stays far, far away from those he deems to be 'peasants'. He comes off as cold-hearted, and that's because he is. He generally sticks to what's legal and doesn't antagonize those who stay out of his way, and if he sees someone in need of help, he'll help them only if he likes them. He has no mercy for those who do him wrong.
Catskull has a dark sense of humor, and he's fond of making light of any situation no matter how grim. He seems to suffer from an inability to take anything seriously, besides not letting 'peasants' touch him. He's immensely selfish, and never shares unless it's a matter of life or death, or loss of limb. He will frequently perform random, inconsequential actions for no good reason, purely on a whim.

Background- There exists a clan of nobles known as the Maclungs, lead by the evil sorcerer Malimore Maclung. Malimore, unbeknownst to his clan, enjoys siphoning off the souls of his kin. Each time a new Maclung is born, Malimore drinks their soul to prolong his own life, dooming them and their bloodline to a life of fatal misfortune. Every Maclung, cruel in their own right due to their lack of a spirit and conscience, dies before the age of thirty. There have only ever been two exceptions. The dark wizard Suliss Maclung, who survived through the eons by stealing the bodies of others, and Catskull Maclung, who was spared his soul. He was the only one Malimore allowed to remain whole due to the old sorcerer's need for a competent bodyguard, unplagued by bad luck and a short life expectancy.

Malimore trained Catskull in the forbidden art of Chronomancy, and had the best warriors in the world teach him the ways of combat. His natural gift for the arcane influenced the warrior physically, amplifying his physical abilities to exceed what most men are capable of. Catskull could have grown into a truly decent man, if his uncle hadn't been so ridiculously evil. Fortunately Catskull was intent on being his own man, not the bitch of an old monster, and soon he ditched Malimore and fled to new lands, seeking to establish his own house of nobility and recreate the Maclung bloodline properly. After that, when he has grown strong enough, he intends to slay his uncle and end the bloodline curse of the Maclungs for good.

Theme Song-

SLAM - Pollen Vs. Doc

Stage- Softy Shores Village

Battle Theme-

WEAPON OF CHOICE - Lysander Vs. Gonad

@Zyamasiel

Say there were two MMA fighters, each 250 pounds in weight and of the same strength. One attempted to lift the other from behind, and the one who had been grabbed attempted a leg hook. This would succeed due to the collaboration from both the force exerted by pressing the shin against the back of the opponent's knee, and the weight of the one being grabbed. The natural downwards extension of the leg is superior in leverage to that of pressing the shin into an opponent at that angle.
Now imagine if one fighter weighed 110 pounds instead of 250. A hardened combatant would have no difficulty lifting the weight of his thirteen year old cousin, even if they were as strong. Without that extra 140 pounds, it makes the leg hook far, far less effective. It's a difference of more than two times body weight.

However...

With Lysander weighing so little in comparison, Gonad could justifiably muscle his way into completing his attack. Certainly the room made them equal, Lysander had his own set of advantages accommodating his size. The Square/Cube Law was in effect here. It was just his fault for placing himself in such a bad position. Again, if by some miracle, Lysander did somehow manage to defy Gonad's superior leverage and forced the barbarian onto one leg mid-lift...
Gonad would not land on his back. He'd fall backwards and twist to his left as a counterbalance to smash Lysander's skull into the ground almost like Randleman did to Fedor, but with much more lethal force. The result would scarcely have changed. In terms of intent, as in, the characters' capacities to have justification for reacting as they did?



======
Well, Gonad actually had a counter in the mix with much more justification than the complete alteration of a move without any forethought.
======


(Explaining the maneuver after the fact nearly two weeks ago, and in the process making the intent for an anticipated counter clear.)

Gonad had known his options from the start, his capacity for seeing through an opponent's actions the stuff of nightmares. Thus, though Lysander figured that Gonad would lose his balance and fall onto his back, this was not the case. As a point of reference, as Lysander had suddenly intended not to maim with his headbutt, but mock the entire time, Gonad had, on the other end of the spectrum, meant to transition into a suplex variation had the leg hook proved disabling. Thus Lysander could laugh, nothing would stop him from doing so- Save the hard floor meeting his skull with the force of a low speed motorcycle crash. With or without the leg hook, Lysander seemed to have a date with death by way of suplex.

WEAPON OF CHOICE - Lysander Vs. Gonad

@Zyamasiel

There was scarcely any time to react properly, having not seen the exact move coming, and by the time Lysander felt the arms around him it'd be virtually too late. Gonad's arms were longer, heavier, and had the dynamic force of first initiative behind them, making it easy to fully encircle his opponent's body with superior power and secure his grip, whereas Lysander would have only just began moving his own limbs in reaction after feeling the sudden pressure. Reacting off of touch alone was befitting of the Matrix, not this scenario, where one fighter had actually tried to attempt combat without looking. That, and how he had an injured arm made his breaking of Gonad's hold nigh improbable.

He'd manage to get a foot behind Gonad's knee, but he'd find that it was mostly a combination of an opponent's weight and the restriction of a flexing leg that restrained the target. The flexing outwards of a leg was naturally more forceful than the forwards pressure applied without the added leverage of significant bodily mass. As 220 pounds was almost negligible to Gonad, he'd be able to muscle his way into completing the suplex if nothing else were done, and by the time that became apparent it'd be too late to try another hook, not that it'd do much. Lysander's headbutt would hit only air, Gonad's head peaking at the base of the man's skull, jaw tucked in, cheek pressed against the nape of Lysander's neck. Gonad wanted to smash Lysander's head, not his own. Anyone foolish enough to attempt a suplex with their head level with their opponent's shouldn't be allowed to even grapple. All these things had been accounted for by Gonad, hence his lack of hesitation, the absence of doubt in his knowledge of bodily mechanics. This was why Gonad hadn't broken eye contact when he bowed. Looking away from your foe is considered borderline suicidal for good reason.

WEAPON OF CHOICE - Lysander Vs. Gonad

@Zyamasiel

Gonad himself couldn't detect pressure shifts well enough to avoid attacks based on the readings. No man could, least of all because of how closely behind the air pressure the blow followed. It left no time to react even if one noticed the miniscule shift. That was one ability Lysander'd find no success with in this fight. But he was still able to react to Gonad thanks to a compound of the elements, his keen instincts, and having seen the blow coming out of the corner of his eye. He recovered well enough, right arm likely weakened noticeably with numbed forearm and sprained wrist. And then he took his eyes off his opponent. Or, at least, he seemed to. Lysander believed Gonad to have the intellect of a child, and thus had figured that the berserker wouldn't immediately see through the ploy. Lysander was turning away to face his sword, intending to walk towards it to make the barbarian rush forwards... Only to unleash a counter-attack thanks to having seen Gonad's reflection in the blade, perhaps? The berserker was having none of this.

If anything Gonad took it as an insult. This one wasn't just in the process of looking away, but also sought to defeat the Lord of the Rising Sun with a party trick? Tinctures of maroon anger spread throughout Gonad's chest like spider legs, a cold heat blossoming at his fingertips. He left the ground silently, with no more noise than one would emit from a casual shift of the bare body, nothing that would even remotely alert suspicion. A quarter second after Lysander's eyes fully left him, the barbarian had let loose with a broad jump, his bulk compacted behind the breadth and height of his opponent's own enlarged (due to its closeness to the sword) reflection with razorous efficiency, limbs tucked in. The world record for broad jump was 12.3 feet. Gonad could cross 7 at a bound with little effort. Lysander's eyes would have no sooner focused on his blade, not even having yet deciphered the images refracted therein if such was his intent, than he'd both hear the clatter of Gonad's boots right behind him and at the very same time, if all went accordingly, realize that both his arms had been pinned to his sides in a gargantuan bearhug, Gonad's mitts clasping together just above the belt line, not with fingers locked but almost as if he was shaking hands with himself. Having not been looking, there was no foreseeable way for Lysander to have quite prepared for this, as ready as he considered himself.

No sooner would he have been potentially seized than the ceiling above would invert itself, colors blending into a vomit-hue of acceleration, the air whistling past his ears like Comanche bone flutes. In the entertainment industry, when one sees a wrestler land a German suplex, it is a carefully practiced stunt involving a canvas convolution of wood that absorbs the brunt of the impact. Gonad weighed a Big Mac short of a quarter ton and Lysander himself tacked on another two-hundred or so. The floor of the Hall consisted of inches of solid marble over hard, unforgiving earth. 326 kilos of weight projected by the pneumatic physical might of Gonad, whose exquisite form carried himself into a steep back bridge, and all of it centered upon the head and shoulders of Lysander. If successful, Lysander would arc unceremoniously into the floor such that his brains would scatter all the way to the scale, his scapula shattered like china plates, and his vertebrae pulverized below the bone-flecked soup of his skull.

WEAPON OF CHOICE - Lysander Vs. Gonad

To come out into the sticks to fight a clown, only for the mask to be hurled to the floor to reveal a demon beneath the façade. The violence came abruptly, a shredding detonation of clashing skill.

Gonad had no expectations, no interfering static blinding him. He lived this fight moment to moment, as ready to face anything as a child was to believe in Santa Claus. He was grabbed by his opponent, who then pivoted to haul Gonad into what seemed to be an improvised hip throw. Small fighters have their advantages. Their uppercuts are punishing against taller foes, they're typically more lithe, agile, the square/cube law favors them. And yes, Lysander's lower center of gravity was beneficial as well, particularly with throws. Gonad had his own advantages, however. Reach and weight. Gonad was a solid two heads taller than his opponent too. Thus for Lysander to pull Gonad's arm across his chest, he'd have to yank the big fella down to his level, give or take, and that wasn't going to be blazingly fast given he was leveraging a quarter-ton of meaty man, and had to first lug the big lug in from more than an arm's reach away. As this occurred Gonad's rear leg bent at the knee, and an instant later he kicked off as hard as he could.

Lysander was hanging onto the wrong arm for a proper hip or shoulder throw, and his grip on Gonad's hand was tenuous at best. Gonad's paws were as large as catcher's mitts, and not only did Lysander have to try and hold onto Gonad's hand, but his own, further resulting in a relatively weak grip. As Gonad propelled himself into his opponent, he fiercely bent his left arm to tear his hand from Lysander's (relinquishing his own on the man's right hand), clenching it into a fist to keep any digits from being grabbed as he did so, that same motion culminating in his elbow jagging towards the back of his foe's head like a stake hammer from roughly a large forearm's length away, most of the monstrous berserker's mass thrown into it. It was abrupt, terrible in its concussive power, and as with most of Gonad's attacks, untelegraphed and with no preemptive wind-up to give it away. The only hint Lysander would have would be Gonad's hand suddenly jerking free. Bruce Lee could consistently throw a punch within 9/100 of a second. That was approximately how much time Lysander had after Gonad freed his hand to both register that his opponent had escaped being thrown, likely a mite or two less. He then had to process the possibility that an interminable danger was heading his way. Afterwards there was the task of consciously registering said danger by evaluating the possible ways Gonad would hurt him and singling the most likely one out. Lastly, he had to avoid it, more easily said than done given how the scope of Gonad's elbow could have plugged a dinosaur's ass. Due to the somewhat steepened angle of the blow, it'd be particularly tough to try and fudge it with a duck.

If the blow struck dead on, it'd be capable of powering Lysander face-first into the tile floor hard enough to actually skid for a few meters, leaving a bloody streak beneath the body. This would without a doubt submerge him deep, deep in unconsciousness, a coma even, for although the body could be bolstered to withstand considerable duress, the brain had no muscles with which to grow stronger, and could only rely on the thickness of the skull to absorb shock that would rattle it into a bloody stupor.

WEAPON OF CHOICE - Lysander Vs. Gonad

@Zyamasiel

*Gonad's pulse; 35 BPM*

To underestimate one's opponent is to invite folly. It was a rare thing for Gonad to bow. It meant he was going to provide his opponent with the respect of fighting seriously, a brief acknowledgement of their strength as well as a warning for them to take up their guard. Even rarer was the chance to fight a deity. For Lysander, this was just another Tuesday, so to speak. For Gonad, it was the culmination of all the blood and sweat he'd ever shed, the ultimate reward. What more could a warrior hope for than to take on the highest of beings in single combat? He'd fought just about everything under the sun. Dragons, trolls, demons, monsters of all shapes and sizes, world champions and the semi-divine, often the odds stacked heinously against him, always with the roaring drums and noble chants of his homeland lending strength to his heart and mind, as it did even now. With only one eye, he missed nothing. With his grisly body he felt everything. The cool stillness of the stagnant air, sunlight filtering defiantly through the murky, ancient windows of the Hall. Outside of his own mind, the silence was deafening.
Lysander's hand drew near Gonad's. As it did, a distant childhood memory, hazy and golden, passed through Gonad's mind like the serene breath of a familiar woman.

*Flashback...*
"Aye. Start with the left leg back, strong young one. Poise of Gonad must not falter, for though spirit may not falter when body does, not win wars on its own while alone, can spirit. Adjust feet, like so..."

"Urgh... Like so? Now be footing of Gonad sure?"

"Nay, pointing forward toes of lead foot should be. Aye, like that. Good."
*Flashback...*

The voice of his father's brother, firm and patient. The longest days of Gonad's life had been those spent in the years before he had aged into a true man.
Lysander's fingertips were so close now, that had Gonad been statically charged, a shock could have passed between them. A martial artist's premonition, honed not from otherworldly power but raw experience, spiked through Gonad's forebrain, a flare of will. "Now", it told him. "Now is the time."
One moment Lysander had been about to initiate a fart joke, humoring the perceived whimsy of an opponent. The next thing he perceived was likely pain. Gonad's hand had only to travel scant inches to seize Lysander's. It was like the flicker of a candle as a ghost whisks by, untelegraphed, as perfect an opportunity as one could ask for aside from flat out asking for a handshake. No handshake was this. He sought to, without any warning or delay, grip Lysander's hand with his thumb on the back of the hand and twist with such phantasmagoric impetus that had his foe been but a normal man, the wrist would have immediately snapped from the torque. Good thing Lysander was physically on par with Gonad, but this was a matter of leverage, not simply brute strength. If Gonad had his way, then in a blink he'd have folded Lysander's palm backwards, towards its owner's body, chain-locking the rest of the arm's joints out straight and in the process breaking his opponent's equilibrium, rendering it even more difficult to attempt a retort such as, say, a kick, even though throwing one from a neutral stance was sub-optimal anyways.

*Flashback...*
"Oomph! Not bad such is. But still need work does form of young Gonad. Turn hips over more, do not extend leg too early. Hmph! Better. Better."
*Flashback...*

-As he attempted to lock Lysander's arm, the rest of his body was not still. It was in the process of turning. Gonad pivoted on the ball of his lead foot as his left took off from the ground, not with a mighty heave, but a deathly whisper, a streamer of centuries-old dust trailing at his heel like the tattered cloak of a midnight rider bearing news of ill fortune.-

*Flashback...*
"Keep support leg at one-half of a right angle, and try again."
"HRAH!!"
"NOT GOOD ENOUGH! The spirit is strong, but the technique lacks! More balance there must be! Let the shin chase the knee!"
*Flashback...*

-Were Gonad's will to take full form, then but an instant after Lysander's arm was locked out, he'd feel it. A feeling akin to the one hikers get before a lightning strike. Hair standing on end, flesh tingling, sweat turned cold. But that was just lightning. Those physical feelings would only come to pass after Gonad's blow had already struck, the body's warning of the pain to come, granting him a chance to steel his nerves against the turbulence to come.-

*Flashback...*
"Wise already, and sharp of wit is Gonad. Only today has this instruction been given, and already mastered such have ye'. Speak to Uncle, young Gonad. For what purpose is it that learn the ways of such things, we do?"
*Flashback...*

-The mortal body is only capable of so much, but Gonad put those preconceived notions to the test. It was as if his leg had been given a nitrous injection, whipping around with the barbarian's passion lending it that extra-sharp 'snap' of impact that you only see from those few humans who have achieved the pinnacle of their art. A steel boot projected without any excess motion, on course to snuff out Lysander's upper right flank with the crisp crack of bone and muscle meeting an unyielding obstacle at high speed. A technically flawless roundhouse kick that'd make ribs creak and groan, and if it didn't rupture the liver, it'd at least severely bruise it. It was something that you felt all over, echoing through your body as a singular wave of pain. It would be highly impractical and awkward to try and block the blow with his left forearm, as he'd have to resist the leverage of the right arm-lock to such a degree as to reach across his body properly.-

*Flashback...*
"To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women! HRAH!"
*Flashback...*

-Gonad did not bellow or scream, rave or roar. He only let loose an explosive snort from his nostrils and from between his teeth, lips cut back over bared teeth at the instant the blow struck, if struck it did.-

*Gonad's pulse; 37 BPM*

-If all came to pass, then almost reverently, Gonad would neatly and swiftly withdraw his leg from its kick, resume his stance, and still holding Lysander in a lock, wait a few seconds to gauge his opponent, giving the entity a few moments. It wasn't a fatal blow, or one that'd immediately end the fight. All this had taken place in only a little more than a second, a gale force wind that died right after its birth, leaving the leaves to again settle. Maybe, just maybe this attack, as paltry as it was, might sway Lysander to grace Gonad with a more serious demeanor that our noble barbarian may have no regrets about this, his only opportunity to fight a god.-

*Gonad's pulse; 35 BPM*

WEAPON OF CHOICE - Lysander Vs. Gonad

@Zyamasiel

Had Gonad known what the man was thinking, he'd have been sorely confused. Perhaps this one entity had fourth wall awareness and was looking at a silly, reconned version of Gonad from a fight that had suffered from the debilitations of an illiterate overseer. But speculation was speculation. Surely if Lysander's notion was correct, he'd be able to win with ease. Maybe he'd even beat Gonad in one move. Gonad completed his bow and, like Lysander, took a neutral stance. Gonad seemed surprised when the man actually dropped his weapon, a bushy eyebrow rising. He was even more surprised when, despite having been standing at a distance of five yards from the man, somehow the fellow had somehow crossed the distance and gotten into Gonad's striking range with a single step. No, wait. Gonad must have blinked for a long time. Or maybe Lysander had crossed the distance and then forgotten having done the act of doing so, and Gonad had forgotten having seen it. At any rate, it'd at least not happen again.
Gonad was more concerned about the buster sword being abandoned. He knew it wasn't for him to question the strategies of gods, maybe the weapon had been superficial and this one was capable of using their body.
The barbarian's heavy bracers were over on the floor by the scale, and thus it could be considered that they were both more or less unarmed.
So it was that Gonad firmly slid his right foot forwards and at the same time casually extended his left arm towards his opponent's upper chest, fingers splayed, open palm facing the ground, in no hurry at all. Whether this opponent retreated or not would reveal the truth.

WEAPON OF CHOICE - Lysander Vs. Gonad

@Zyamasiel

Perhaps Lysander still had the incorporeal echoes of this realm's timestream in his head, from all that dimension hopping. It'd been about five minutes ago when Gonad had roared his challenge, and present Gonad was merely opening his bag of chips. He glanced up as the doors burst open, a jolly grin creasing his scarred face. Beer had been mentioned. That was all that mattered at the moment.

*CLOP*

Gonad rolled off the balance plate and landed neatly on both feet, nodding sagely as he spoke.

"Bwah! Sooner than Gonad thought did Strange Man arrive! Saw note on door, aye? Made note for Gonad did brother of Gonad, Testiculese, for not can Gonad read or write! Drew picture of Gonad did Gonad though. Hruh! Not does Gonad have ale, but potent yak brew, honorable spirit of Village of Gonad! If able to hold liquor is Strange Man, then enjoy he may after we do battle."

The barbarian's countenance was indeed comparable to that of a child's in at least one way. There was no deceptive cunning at all present. This one was as honest as he was ugly, the only window to his soul forecasting weather as clear and bright as cloudless Texan skies. Gentle, even. Lysander was a being whose experience had been drawn over the course of countless eons, from countless lives lived in the heat of combat. To mere men, the formidable size and musculature of Gonad was as intimidating as the reaper's own visage, his wisdom of slaying beyond them. To Lysander, a creature of this size and power was something he came across as often as a school girl sees dandelions as she skips around at recess, hardly worth a second glance. It was inconceivable to think that this brutish warrior could be called even a pleasant diversion, let alone a challenge. Yet, something wasn't quite normal here...

*Heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe*

His stride was flawlessly balanced, his footing sure yet innately, unconsciously aware. His body moved as neatly as a machine, oiled to perfection, each gear turning in unison, flowing without effort. He'd pause five yards away from Lysander and bow, arms at his sides. As he did so his single eye did not leave Lysander, face remaining raised. He did not look away, did not look down, as they do in the Far East. His gaze was as steady and devoid of unnecessary thought as a carpenter's bubble level, almost eerily so. He took in Lysander's appearance as a whole, sucking in the information without a leak. What were the rough dimensions of Lysander's sword? Its length, width, what mass did it suggest in pounds?

WEAPON OF CHOICE - Lysander Vs. Gonad

@Zyamasiel

What if God was one of us?

The hulking man lay on the right plate of the giant scale, reclining comfortably, propped up on an elbow as he absently watched the far door. The scale remained balanced despite the tremendous weight. The scale was always balanced. It'd taken Gonad nearly three months to track down this structure. A sort of dimensional crossroads with divine inspiration, the Court of the Fair Ones. This sacred structure had been crafted for a singular purpose; a place where higher beings were expected to leave their power at the door, where men could fight gods, and otherwise insignificant creatures could fight men. The lowest form of observable life in the Hall set the baseline, although microscopic organisms were right the fuck out. It was by the being's own volition that they surrendered their power, but to break the law of the Hall and to die in the Hall was astral death, cessation of existence in every meaning of the word. Those who dared to violate the law here were those who grew tired of such paltry pleasures as sentience offered, who could find solace only in absolute oblivion. The threat of such a fate had deterred most for many thousands of years, for what if a man entered and after him closely followed a mere spider, or a beetle? To meet one's end at the mandibles of a bug, deprived of any hope for an afterlife...

These things were known to Gonad. Was it his will to end the existence of a god? Nay. Nay, though surely one may try to end him for having the impudence to again open the doors of the dreaded Hall. No, Gonad just wanted to knock a god out. Just in case of accidents though, which do happen, he'd posted a note on the outside of the doors.



And so our noble barbarian waited for a mighty foe to step down from the boundless depths of space and time, to trade fists and blood, that a merry battle may be had. He pulled out a bag of assorted veggie chips, prepared for the long haul, hoping that his invitation had been heard.

*A flashback...*

-Gonad stood outside the Hall the of Fair Ones, hands cupped around his mouth, bellowing at the moon with all the force his wall-shaking baritone could exert.-

"HRAH!! COME AND FIGHT GONAD SOON!"