Ducksworth

Fate/Edelweiss

The Arena's Champion

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	Titles: The Golden God Warrior, Specter of the Eternal Arena, Glory’s Final Arbiter Class: Berserker Gender: Male Era: 1st–3rd Century CE / AD Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Attribute: Man Colour: D4AF37 Strength: A Endurance: B+ Agility: B Mana: C Luck: C

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History

Rome’s Colosseum was more than a battleground, it was a theater of war, where blood was spilled not in sorrow, but in triumph. The gladiators who fought beneath its scorching sun were more than warriors; they were living embodiments of greatness, their skill refined through pain, discipline, and sheer will.

Among them, the most legendary warriors were hailed as gods upon the sand, their victories met with deafening cheers, their movements shaping the rhythm of battle itself. Some etched their names into history, but many more transcended individual legacy, woven into the very spirit of the arena itself.

Through these men, combat became art, and through their relentless mastery, a new entity was formed. Aureus Deus Bellator is the collected triumph of Rome’s greatest fighters, not a singular soul, but the manifestation of battle perfected. He does not lament those who fell, he embodies their glory, their final strikes frozen in time, their echoes lingering across history as a spectacle that would never fade.

Summoning him is not calling forth a lone warrior, nor is it summoning a slave seeking freedom, it is invoking the theater of war itself, the Colosseum reborn through living radiance, clad in gold and wreathed in legend. Aureus does not fight for survival, he fights for the roar of the crowd, for the perfection of battle, for the eternal stage where only the worthy may stand.

Personality

Aureus Deus Bellator is the embodiment of combat as spectacle, a warrior who does not simply fight but performs, shaping each battle into a grand display of mastery. Arrogant beyond compare, he sees himself as the pinnacle of martial prowess, a force beyond human limitation, forged from the greatest warriors of Rome’s Colosseum. Every movement he makes, every strike he delivers, is done with intention, precision, and showmanship, not merely to win, but to be witnessed.

For Aureus, combat is not survival, nor duty, it is art. A duel is not a contest between two souls, but a moment in history, a scene to be perfected before an unseen audience. He believes that warriors should be measured not by strength alone, but by presence, technique, and the spectacle of their execution. If an opponent lacks these qualities, they are beneath him, undeserving of acknowledgment.

He does not obey commands; he chooses when to fight, who to fight, and how to fight. His so-called "Master" is not his ruler, nor his superior, but rather a mere spectator, fortunate enough to witness his greatness. At first, he speaks around them rather than to them, treating their presence as incidental rather than meaningful. If they wish to earn recognition, they must prove themselves, not through words, but through action.

Even as time passes, Aureus never truly accepts the modern world. The absence of Rome weighs heavily upon him, and though his initial outrage fades, his discontent lingers in sharp remarks and dismissive gestures. He does not complain outright, but his dissatisfaction is evident in the way he continually critiques his surroundings, commenting on their lack of grandeur.

Beyond his arrogance, Aureus carries a deep reverence for true warriors, those who embody combat with presence, discipline, and honor. While morality holds no meaning to him, strength in battle does, and an opponent who fights with brilliance and dignity may earn his grudging respect. However, those who rely on deception, cowardice, or dishonorable tactics are seen as stains upon the battlefield, unworthy of his time. Against such opponents, his scorn is absolute, and his refusal to acknowledge them is sharper than any blade.

His speech is layered in grandeur, often interwoven with Latin phrases, spoken as though proclaiming divine truths. His voice carries weight, commanding, theatrical, undeniably authoritative. He does not waste words on pleasantries or meaningless exchanges; each statement is crafted for impact, a declaration of his presence rather than mere conversation.

Aureus is not irrational, nor blinded by madness, his Berserker nature manifests not in frenzy, but in unshakable conviction. He is not a man, nor a servant to be controlled; he is the Colosseum reborn, the arena made flesh, the spectacle of combat given form. He does not serve. He does not bow. He is witnessed, and that alone is enough.

Class Skills

Contemptus Arcanum (Rank C)

"Contempt for the Arcane"
Aureus does not recognize magic as a true force in battle, to him, it is a coward's tool, a feeble attempt to substitute mastery of the blade with deception. He refuses to acknowledge spells as legitimate threats, often attempting to shrug off magecraft simply by rejecting its significance rather than through innate magical resistance.

• He negates weaker magical effects, dismissing them as beneath him.
• Higher-tier magecraft still affects him, but his sheer force of will may allow him to fight through certain effects that would hinder others.
• The presence of magic-based opponents actively fuels his Berserker rage, if an enemy relies heavily on spells or ranged attacks, Aureus grows more furious, his conviction elevating his raw combat strength.

Furor Theatricus (Rank C → Conditional Rank B)

"Theatrical Fury"
Unlike typical Berserkers, Aureus’s Mad Enhancement does not manifest as mindless rage, but rather as theatrical obsession and unshakable conviction in combat. However, the presence of magic-users shifts this dynamic, causing his fury to escalate in response to their cowardice.

• Baseline Rank: C – Provides a slight increase to Strength and Endurance, reinforcing his unyielding battle presence.
• Conditional Rank: B – If facing opponents who rely heavily on magic and ranged combat, his Berserker state intensifies, pushing his physical prowess beyond its typical limits.
• Immune to fear, psychological interference, and commands that contradict his battle philosophy.
• Retains eloquence, charisma, and tactical reasoning, as his madness is conviction, not chaos.

Personal Skills

Arma Colossei (Rank B)

"Weapons of the Colosseum"
Aureus does not wield a single weapon—he commands the arsenal of the Colosseum itself. Through grand gestures and calculated movements, he summons various gladiatorial weapons mid-combat, each materializing in bursts of golden light, their arrival carefully timed to enhance the rhythm of battle.

• Weapons Summoned: Trident, net, spear, cestus (battle gloves), and other gladiatorial arms.
• Theatrical Summoning: Weapons do not appear instantly—each is summoned through deliberate action, ensuring its arrival is as much a part of combat spectacle as the fight itself.
• Combat Timing & Showmanship: Aureus’s weapons arrive exactly when needed, appearing as the final step of a motion rather than a sudden event. Every action flows seamlessly into weapon conjuration, reinforcing his battlefield dominance.
• Manifestation Principle: These weapons are not illusions, but temporary physical constructs, forged from the unseen essence of the Colosseum, enforcing his belief that true battle demands variation and spectacle.

Continuatio Proelii (Rank A)

“Battle Continuation”
Aureus does not fall easily, so long as the performance must go on, he endures.

• May resist death long enough for a final strike, last words, or sheer defiance.
• Even when mortally wounded, his sheer willpower and refusal to fade into obscurity allow him to linger on the battlefield, ensuring his final moment is worthy of his legend.
• He does not fight purely for survival, but for spectacle, meaning even his endurance reflects his need for battle to remain glorious.

Imperium Colossei (Rank B)

“Dominion of the Colosseum”
Aureus does not simply fight within an arena, he embodies it, commands it, and reshapes it in his image. Even in battlefields that do not resemble the Colosseum, his presence alone alters the flow of combat, imposing an arena-like structure upon the fight.

• Enemies find themselves instinctively constrained, forced into engagements that feel eerily like formal duels or grand spectacles.
• Opponents who rely on chaotic, dishonorable, or deceptive tactics experience slight disruptions in their flow, as if the battlefield itself rejects their methods.
• Those who fight with discipline, dignity, and theatrical prowess may feel a faint surge of empowerment, recognized as worthy combatants.
• Aureus himself thrives in this structured battle environment, his movements sharper, his strikes heavier, as if the arena itself strengthens him.

Ovatio Spectaculi (Rank B+)

"Ovation of the Spectacle"
Aureus does not fight alone, though unseen, the spirits of the Colosseum roar in approval, unseen spectators watching from beyond time itself. Their presence influences battle, reacting to combatants based on their dignity and conduct within the fight.

• Auditory Phenomenon: As Aureus grows invested in battle, cheering, drum beats, and gasps begin bleeding into reality. The sounds cannot be traced, but they intensify as combat becomes grander, more dramatic, and more honorable.
• Empowerment for Worthy Warriors: Fighters who engage with discipline, strength, and presence feel a slight surge in power, as though the arena itself recognizes them as combatants worthy of history.
• Rejection of Dishonorable Combatants: Those who rely on cowardice, deception, or humiliation face subtle battlefield disruptions, mistimed movements, uneasy footing, or hesitations that create openings. Noble Phantasms and dishonorable abilities may even misfire beneath Aureus’s glare.
• Aureus is affected more profoundly than others, where others might hear only faint echoes, he experiences the full weight of the ovation, feeding his power and reinforcing his dominance. The unseen crowd is not just watching him, they are judging him, exalting him, demanding his victory, amplifying his presence beyond normal limits.

Noble Phantasms

Arena Ludorum – Ludi Aeterni

"Games of Glory – The Eternal Spectacle"
Rank: A
NP Type: Reality Marble
Range: 0~50 meters
Maximum Number of Targets: 15

Aureus expands the battlefield into a grand Colosseum, its golden sands shifting beneath his feet. However, the true manifestation of this Noble Phantasm is himself, dividing into multiple warriors, each an extension of his will, his style, his strength, each wielding different weapons, perfectly synchronized to the rhythm of the unseen audience.

• Reality Marble Activation: The Colosseum erupts into existence, shaping the battlefield into a vast arena where Aureus commands all within it.
• Legion of One: Aureus does not summon warriors, he becomes them, ensuring every combatant in the Colosseum faces not echoes, but purely him, in different forms, all motivated by the phantom audience’s approval.
• Absolute Combat Law: Upon activation, all active magic, abilities, and Noble Phantasms are canceled. Spells unravel, enchantments cease, and supernatural advantages vanish, forcing every combatant into pure combat. No external forces can reassert themselves while the arena remains active.
• Oppressive Atmosphere: Enemies feel the weight of judgment, their movements subtly pressured by the roar of the phantom audience, as if they are being evaluated with every strike.

Excidium Gloriae – Iudicium Ultimum

"The Fall That Crowns Glory – Final Judgment"
Rank: A+
NP Type: Anti-Unit
Range: 10 meters
Maximum Number of Targets: 1

At the climax of a worthy duel, Aureus raises his hand, releasing his gladius into golden light. For a few seconds, it vanishes entirely, and the battlefield falls silent, the unseen audience ceases its roar, Ovatio Spectaculi fades, and judgment begins.
This moment of absolute quiet lasts just long enough for the verdict to be decided, not by Aureus, but by the unseen spectators.
Then, the weapon returns, taking one of two forms:

• Gladius Divinus – A radiant blade that pierces any defense, concept, or spell, an executioner’s sword designed to sever fate itself.
• Rudis Misericordia – A simple wooden training sword, given only to magnificent opponents, symbolizing their right to leave the battlefield in honor.

Aureus himself never decides which form appears, the Colosseum itself judges, rewarding glory or delivering punishment.
Once the choice is made, Aureus will not strike again. The judgment is final.

Fate/Edelweiss

@eugalB This is eerily similar to the idea I am just about to post!

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

Jet hauled the heavy crate up behind him, the muscles in his arm straining under its weight. His grip was firm but trembling, every sinew in his body screaming at him to stop. He kept his stance wide and low, grounding himself to maintain balance as the crate threatened to topple. The exertion was beginning to wear him down, his reservoir of strength dwindling like sand slipping through an hourglass. He had abandoned his jacket earlier in the slog; it now lay crumpled over the edge of the crate. Beads of sweat glistened on his skin, catching the dim light like morning dew shimmering on blades of grass. The sweat had seeped through his battered top, forming dark, uneven patches that clung to his body.

He paused briefly, gasping for air as he raised the ramp, the sound of the hydraulics echoing in the bay. The final piece of gear was loaded. Relief flickered across his face, but it was short-lived. Jet turned to the others who were beginning to trickle into the bay. "That's the last of it," he announced, his voice hoarse and edged with fatigue. He let the cable of the crate slip from his hand, guiding it carefully onto the bay floor before stepping back. With a weary swipe of his forearm, he cleared the sweat dripping into his eyes.

"It's gunna take a bit to get these injectors installed," he muttered, nudging them with the toe of his boot as if sizing them up. "But first, I need to patch up that arm." He inhaled sharply, leaning against the workbench for support, nodding gently to it. "And," he added after a pause, his voice quieter now, almost to himself, "a spot of rest wouldn't go amiss, neither."

Fel was inscrutable as he helped set down the last bit of gear, not far from Jet. He was oddly angry at the mechanic, as if his injuries were in any way his own fault. (they weren’t, and Fel knew it…) He also understood how ridiculous his feelings were at that moment, but feelings and logic were seldom good bedfellows. He wanted to punch Jet in the shoulder, hard, and tell him if he had got himself killed out there, Fel would kill him! …but that was stupid, and even he was aware that it would do no good. Still, he was concerned for his friend, and stepped close to him, resting a hand on his shoulder and speaking low, quiet enough that it would be difficult to hear. “I can’t help you keep your word, if you go getting yourself killed on some rock. What the hell would Nova say? …go, get some rack. You need it. The engines will wait.” He spoke not from a perspective of actual mechanical knowledge, but as a pilot, who knew his ship as much by feel and sound, as by torque wrench and diagnostic – an esoteric connection that had served him well over the years. Now, his assertions about the condition of the UA had been met with raised eyebrows from Jet many times before. The same could be true now. But if Jet had rolled an insight check, he’d see that Fel was telling the truth. At least, the pilot fully believed what he had said. “You know you’ll do better work once you’ve had some rest, and with both arms, dammit. I need to talk to the crew, but what I have to say can wait till you’re upright, without fear of keeling over. You did good, partner. Real good. But you’re more important than any karking injectors.”

Jet opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat like gravel. His jaw tensed as silence filled the space where a response should have been. Nothing came out. He shut his mouth with a quiet exhale, the breath slipping past clenched teeth. Kark it all to hell. Fel was right, and the truth of it settled like a stone in his chest.

Nova’s name hit him low, twisting his gut without warning. If he had died here, alone and broken in the dirt... he shut the thought out before it could dig in. That road didn’t lead anywhere good.

And if she saw him like this? She’d come at him, flailing and furious, fire and panic spilling out in every direction. It wouldn’t be about the wounds or the blood or the close call, it would be about what he had nearly left behind. Fel would be standing beside her, arms crossed, saying nothing. He wouldn’t need to. That look of his would be enough to bury Jet in guilt deeper than any grave.

The two of them could make his life hell. Loud, relentless, impossible to ignore. But through all the noise and frustration, there was something steady in it. Something that held him up even when he tried to fall. Hell, maybe that was what home looked like for him. Maybe that was the point.

He gave a slow nod, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of everything left unsaid. “Yeah.” His voice barely made it out. “It can wait.”

He stood there beside the workbench a moment longer, shoulders hunched, sweat drying on his neck. His breathing had slowed, but only just. His prosthetic was gone, and the weight of that absence tugged harder than it should now. Fel’s words still echoed behind him, quiet but solid, the kind that didn’t need repeating.

As he passed Fel, he reached out and let his hand land on the pilot’s shoulder. Not a pat. Not a clap. Just firm enough to be felt, just long enough to say what needed saying. ‘Thanks. I hear you. You were right.’ He didn’t trust himself to put it into words, not with the burn in his throat and the ache behind his eyes. He gave the faintest nod as he moved past, then he left the hangar.

The jacket slung over his shoulder now felt like a wet tarp, every step down the corridor pulling harder at his bones. His boots thudded against the steel floor, rhythm slow and uneven. He didn’t limp, not exactly, but his body moved like a machine that had skipped too many maintenance cycles. Every joint felt like it needed oil. Every muscle told a story he didn’t want to hear. He had forgotten, for a little while, how old he really was. Fifty-four wasn’t ancient, not by spacer standards, but he used to feel younger. Moved younger. Thought younger. Today? Today had reminded him.

The corridor lights buzzed overhead, flickering in time with his steps. He didn’t bother going to the medbay. Not yet, That could wait. Everything could wait. He reached his quarters, the door slid open with a soft hiss. Inside, everything was still and quiet, the familiar room greeted him without judgment. He let the jacket fall where he stood, then toed off his boots, one at a time. Each motion sent a fresh jolt through his ribs, but he was beyond wincing.

He sat on the edge of the cot, the frame creaking in protest, then let gravity pull him the rest of the way down. His body settled into the thin mattress like it had found something close to peace. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, watching nothing, and then he closed his eyes. The ship kept humming outside his door, the noise distant and soft, and Jet finally let it go.

Fate/Edelweiss: A Holy Grail War in Switzerland

Also interested if you still have space! I'm already thinking up Master and Slave ideas

Noble Arms: The ASEAN War - Thread Three, the Darkest Hour

Archer “Griff” Griffin

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The prince’s command rang sharp through the comms, cutting clean through the chaos of the battlefield.

"All-zzzt-Police units, plus Callie - take the motorbikers into custody; do not-zzzt-them escape! Mike-zzzt-bserve the remaining Technicals as they drive thr-zzzt-tell Nil where and what to shoot! Archer-zzzt-to the breaches on the western fence and cut off their rou-zzzt"

The order was all Griff needed to hear. Without hesitation, he charged forward, boots tearing through the churned earth as his body locked into a rhythm that felt both new and deeply familiar. His gauntlets were no longer just armor; they had become an extension of him, anchored to bone, fused to instinct.

He pushed through the wreckage of the camp, weaving between tents and shattered crates, vaulting low barriers, and catching himself on debris without ever losing momentum. His breath came hard and fast, not driven by fear but by the sheer force of his relentless pace. Every movement was deliberate, not perfect nor supernatural, but fast, efficient, and always just ahead of danger.

As the western fence came into view, its barbed wire curled around the break like twisted fingers, Griff spotted fresh footprints in the mud, three figures slipping through the gap and making a break for it. Surging forward with purpose, he didn’t hesitate. The first figure turned too late, and Griff’s shoulder collided with him full force, driving the man sideways into the ground. Despite the hard impact, Griff was already rolling, on his feet and moving again before the man could even groan. The second swung a pipe at Griff’s head, but he ducked low, stepped inside, and delivered a gauntleted fist into the attacker’s ribs with a sickening crunch. Following through with an elbow to the neck, he dropped the man instantly.

The third figure had already begun fleeing. Griff gave chase, his boots pounding through the mud and grass. Catching hold of the man’s collar, Griff yanked him back, sending him sprawling to the ground. One clean punch to the jaw ended it, fast, precise, brutal. Standing alone at the breach, Griff’s chest rose and fell with the weight of what he had just done.

Then he heard it, a low, rattling growl. The sound of an engine grinding through the distance as tires struggled for grip. The noise carried a weight far greater than any other chaos on the battlefield. It was a truck, a technical, its scrap armor bolted haphazardly to the front. There was no gunner, just a driver hunched forward as if sheer willpower alone could propel the vehicle through anything in its path. The truck was headed straight for the breach, and for him.

His body protested as his legs ached, his ribs throbbed with dull pain, and his back remained stiff from earlier clashes. Yet none of it mattered. The gauntlets pressed warmly against his skin, their weight both reassuring and potent. Griff had no certainty if his plan would succeed, but the resolve that had carried him this far told him he had to act. As the truck hit the ditch, its front end dipping low under the strain of its suspension, Griff moved.

He stepped into its path, launching himself off the ground with both fists raised overhead. Time seemed to stretch as his gauntlets came crashing down. The roar that erupted from Griff wasn’t a word or even human, it was pure, primal sound, forged from pain, willpower, and something deeper within him. His fists struck the hood like a sledgehammer meeting steel, and the truck collapsed under the force. The engine crumpled, the front axle twisted, and steam hissed from the mangled front end as the vehicle shuddered to a halt in the ditch.

Landing hard beside it, Griff stumbled from the impact. Pain surged through his body, his arms screaming from shoulder to wrist and his back flaring with white-hot agony. Yet he wasn’t finished. He staggered to the side of the truck and raised his fists once more, bringing them down with all his strength near the front wheel. This time, the metal didn’t shriek, it cracked. The wheel well buckled inward, and something inside snapped loudly and cleanly. The front of the vehicle sagged to one side, sinking into the mud like a wounded beast. The truck was done. The gap was sealed.

Griff stood gasping, his shoulders trembling and his spine throbbing. The muscles in his arms twitched uncontrollably, pain pooling behind his ribs like cement. Yet despite it all, he was still standing. Dropping to one knee, he pressed his hand into the cold earth, momentarily grounding himself. The gauntlets remained flawless, clean and untouched, but his body told a starkly different story. This was what the gauntlets were capable of, and Griff was only beginning to grasp the limits. Slowly, he rose to his feet, each sharp breath cutting through his throat. The breach was closed, and Griff was still on his feet.

Noble Arms: The ASEAN War - Thread Three, the Darkest Hour

Archer “Griff” Griffin

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There had been a man there. One second—a living, breathing, moving thing. The next? Gone. Griff stood motionless, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, his body suddenly unfamiliar to him. He felt rigid, like his limbs weren’t his own, like the very idea of movement had become something distant—an abstract concept his brain was struggling to recall.

It wasn’t just the brutality of it. It was the speed. The power. The sheer, unnatural force with which Nil’s Noble Arm had erased a human being from existence. There had been a man there. He was certain of it—he had seen him, registered him as a threat, prepared himself for another clash. And now there were only his legs left. His mind splintered into fragments, thoughts scattering in random directions, none of them helpful.

'Move. Move. You need to move.' But his legs didn’t listen. His body remained frozen, his chest tightening, his breath too shallow, too fast.

'That wasn't normal.'

'You know that wasn't normal, right?'

'He was there. He was there. And now he's not.'

His fingers twitched, curling slightly, his hands balling into unsteady fists. He felt like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly severed, his body waiting for a command that his brain couldn’t seem to deliver.

'What if it had been me?'

The thought flared so violently in his mind that his stomach twisted. If Nil had decided, if the trajectory had been slightly different, if—no, he wasn’t finishing that thought. He needed to move. He needed to breathe.

A sudden impact hit his chest, jolting him just enough to break the paralysis. His glazed-over focus snapped downward. A handheld radio. It buzzed to life, crackling through bursts of static.

"—iff! Griff, are y—k?!"

The voice was familiar. Distant. Mikey. Griff’s throat was dry, his limbs still sluggish, his thoughts jumbled. He needed to snap out of it—needed to force himself back into the moment. His breath was coming too fast, his pulse hammering in his ears. Static crackled again.

"—your highness? Speci—gel here. I—watch—building—southwest."

His mind was slow, struggling to piece together fragments.

'Southwest… She left me?'

'No. No, she shot across camp. She’s fine. She’s—'

Another pause, another broken message.

"Christ—lot of them! Counting fo—technicals, tw—riders—perimeter breach."

Four. Twenty. The numbers weren’t clicking properly, weren’t fitting together in his mind the way they should. Griff sucked in a breath, rolled his shoulders, shaking the stiffness from his limbs. The battlefield was coming back into focus, piece by piece.

"Sor—leaving you—hind, Griff. Uh, ov—"

Leaving him behind. That was the part his brain latched onto, twisting the words in the fog of shock and adrenaline. Leaving him behind. He knew it wasn’t intentional, knew Mikey wasn’t saying it like that, but the thought coiled around his mind anyway. Something snapped inside him. Not fear—not anymore. Something hotter, sharper—the stubborn refusal to let this moment control him.

Griff exhaled sharply. Then, before he could let his thoughts spiral further, he pulled back his fist and punched himself straight in the jaw. The pain was instant. White-hot, blinding, perfect. His head jerked sideways, his lip splitting as the coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth, dripping onto his tongue. Good. That did it. The battlefield sharpened instantly.

The explosion hit next—a deep, rolling boom that roared through his bones, thick smoke curling through the air. Shrapnel clattered, dust kicked up. The technical was gone. Obliterated. He barely flinched.

His pulse was fire. His senses were steel.

His eyes flicked downward—two gun cases, dropped by Mikey. His fingers twitched once, a brief hesitation, but he already knew the answer before the thought even fully formed. No guns. No killing. But something was different. Something surged through him. Heat pooled in his veins, thrumming, as if something under his skin had woken up for the first time.

That’s when he felt it.

A pressure—no, a presence—coiling around his forearms, something settling, shifting, unfolding with the same unstoppable momentum rolling inside him.

His Noble Arm. It was changing.

The bracers he had relied on—the ones that had always felt unfinished—weren’t just there anymore. They expanded, plating stretching and shifting over his skin, a seamless transition of molten metal reforming itself into something complete.

Gauntlets. Full. Tangible. Ready.

His breath hitched. His heart roared. Then—movement. An attacker surged toward him, machete gleaming, eyes burning with murderous intent.

Griff didn’t hesitate.

His body moved before his mind did. A step forward—too fast, too smooth, too perfect—his foot hitting the ground heavier, more controlled than ever before. The attacker lunged—Griff’s arm snapped up, intercepting the strike without effort. Metal met metal—his gauntlet caught the blade—and for the first time, the strength behind his grip felt like his own.

His other fist came next. No thought. No delay. Pure, exhilarating instinct.

He swung—clean, decisive, brutal. The moment stretched and his knuckles crashed into the attacker’s face—bone shattered instantly. A sickening crunch. Blood exploded, spraying across the ground. The attacker’s head snapped back, his body crumpling before he even had a chance to scream as a sickening smile crept across Griff’s face.

Unconscious. Face in tatters. Done. Griff stood taller now. His chest rose and fell, controlled, steady. This was different. This was new. And it felt right. There was no time to process it—no time to question—only time to fight.

And he wasn’t holding back anymore.

Noble Arms: The ASEAN War - Thread Three, the Darkest Hour

Archer “Griff” Griffin

---

The Prince's departure was like the spark to a powder keg. The uneasy stillness of the refugee tent site shattered in an instant, giving way to shouts, panicked cries, and the unmistakable cracks of gunfire. Griff barely had time to register what was happening before Mikey had pulled her rifle and fired. The sound rang in his ears, sharp and precise. And then she was gone.

One second she was next to him, and the next, she had vanished. "Griff, watch out!" Her voice carried back to him, urgent and distant.

Griff's head snapped toward the shout, but his gaze was immediately drawn to the attackers barreling toward him. Knives gleamed in the low light, their makeshift guns coughing out rounds sporadically. His instincts screamed at him to move, and he obeyed, diving toward a pallet stacked high with rice bags. The impact jarred his shoulder, dislodging one of the heavy bags that sagged slightly against him. He pressed his back to the stack, gasping for breath, his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest.

His mind raced, unable to keep up with the chaos unfolding around him. Mikey’s Noble Arm had shown its worth in mere seconds, not just as a weapon but as something versatile, almost otherworldly in its efficiency. Griff’s eyes dropped to his own arms, his breath hitching slightly at the sight of the bracers fused to his forearms. They sat there, dull and lifeless, offering no comfort, no power—just dead weight. He clenched his fists tightly, frustration mixing with fear. If his bracers weren’t going to do anything, then he’d have to do it himself.

"Finding a vantage point!"

Gritting his teeth, Griff steeled himself and surged to his feet. The attackers were closing in, and he knew he needed to stop them before they could take aim. Charging forward, he closed the distance to the nearest man, his movements sharp and deliberate. A knife came slashing toward his ribs, and Griff’s body reacted on instinct. His arm shot up, the blade skidding harmlessly against the bracer with a sharp clang. He barely registered the sound before driving his fist hard into the attacker’s ribs. The man staggered back with a pained gasp, dropping to his knees, leaving Griff enough time to press on.

Griff barely had time to catch his breath before a gunshot cracked through the air. His body twisted sharply to the side, the bullet whizzing past him so close he could feel the rush of air against his cheek. His heart thundered in his chest, the realization of how narrowly he’d avoided death hitting him hard. He didn’t stop to think about how he’d moved so quickly—adrenaline, he told himself. It had to be adrenaline.

The gunman raised his weapon again, but Griff was already moving. He surged forward, closing the distance in a blur of motion. The gun fired once more, the bullet striking his bracer with a sharp metallic clang and ricocheting harmlessly to the side. The sound startled him, but he didn’t falter. His shoulder slammed into the gunman’s chest, driving him to the ground with a force that left the attacker stunned. The weapon clattered free, and Griff followed through, pinning the man down with swift, practiced movements.

Before Griff could recover, the glint of a knife caught his eye. An attacker lunged at him, the blade flashing in the dim light. Griff turned, but not quickly enough to avoid the knife entirely. Pain flared along his side as the blade glanced off him, slicing through his shirt and grazing his skin. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the attacker’s wrist. With a sharp twist, he disarmed the man and drove his knee into his stomach, doubling him over. Griff finished with a decisive strike to the back of the attacker’s head, sending him crumpling to the ground.

Griff staggered back, pressing a hand to his side where the knife had caught him. His breaths came fast and heavy, the sting of the wound a sharp reminder of how close he’d come. For a fleeting moment, he thought about the way his body had moved—the speed of it, the sharpness of his reactions. It felt... different, like he was a step ahead of himself. Adrenaline, he told himself again, though the thought sat uneasily in his mind. He couldn’t afford to think about it now.

Scanning the chaos around him, Griff’s gaze darted over the sea of movement—refugees fleeing, attackers pressing forward—searching for any sign of Mikey. “Mikey!” he called out, his voice raw but forceful as his eyes scoured the camp. She had vanished across the field earlier, her voice echoing back to him. He needed to find her.

Griff’s chest heaved as he stood amidst the chaos, his fists clenched tightly, the sting along his side a sharp reminder of the fight he’d just survived. The attackers lay scattered around him—some groaning, others still. The camp was still in turmoil, the cries of fleeing refugees and the distant sound of sporadic gunfire filling the night air. But for the moment, Griff stood alone, a brief lull wrapping around him like a vacuum.

It was then, as he raised his head, that he saw her.

She was already there, standing as if she had been cut from the chaos itself. Silver hair cascaded past her shoulders, catching faint glints of light, and in her hands were two gleaming swords. She stood with an otherworldly stillness, her presence commanding yet unnervingly quiet. Around her, the air rippled faintly, and Griff’s eyes were drawn to the space behind her—a swirling portal, its edges flickering like a barely contained storm. He hadn’t noticed it before. Had it been there all along? Had she?

Something deep inside him stirred, a primal instinct he couldn’t explain. He didn’t know who she was, but there was no doubt in his mind—she was a Noble Arm user. It wasn’t the swords or the portal that convinced him, though both were strikingly unnatural. It was something else, something he couldn’t put into words, as if his own Noble Arm could sense hers.

Griff’s breath caught for a moment as he stared at her, unsure of what to do next. His fists loosened slightly, the cold weight of his bracers grounding him in the moment. The battle may have been over for now, but something about her told him it wasn’t finished yet. Not by a long shot.

Shadows of the Forgotten Realm

Just in case anyone is lurking, we are looking for more to join, either PM or drop a CS here and I'll get to it!

Shadows of the Forgotten Realm

We may have lost someone from the RP so I'm putting this back out there for those who are interested to join! @Varshanka Are you still interested?

Shadows of the Forgotten Realm

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Edrion sat back for a moment, watching the flames lick at the dark sky, as if committing the scene to memory. Then, with a quiet sigh, he set about gathering his belongings. His hands moved with steady, practiced precision, stowing away the remnants of the meal and extinguishing the fire. Each motion spoke of a man accustomed to solitude and self-sufficiency.

The old man reached for his weathered satchel, slipping it over one shoulder, and leaned his staff against the crook of his arm. As he worked, he addressed the group with his soft, rasping voice. "The night grows no younger, and neither do I. Come, let us away to my home. There is more comfort to be found there than under these ancient trees."

For those who had offered payment or service earlier, he turned with a faint smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes. "I ask for no gold, no labor, no recompense. Generosity is not a coin to be bartered, but a light to be shared." His tone made it clear—this was not a matter open for discussion.

Turning his attention to the fire, Edrion crouched low. With a handful of soil and a sweep of his weathered hands, he smothered the flames, leaving only the faintest glow of embers behind. The darkness surged around the group, the forest seeming to stretch taller and press closer now that the fire’s barrier was gone. Yet, Edrion remained unfazed.

"Follow me, if you will," he said, his voice calm as the group instinctively huddled a little closer. The old man took the lead, his staff tapping softly against the ground with each step. The path ahead was barely visible, but Edrion seemed to know it well, his movements unerring even in the dim light of the crescent moon.

The forest around them was a study in contrasts—eerily quiet save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of leaves stirred by an unseen breeze. The towering trees above cast long, jagged shadows, and the air held a chill that seemed to seep into their bones. Despite the unease creeping into the travelers' minds, there was a strange, inexplicable calmness in Edrion’s presence.

Then came the melody. It began as a low hum, almost imperceptible at first, as if it had risen from the earth itself. Edrion’s voice, gravelly but sure, carried the tune—a song without words, yet heavy with meaning. It was a melody that seemed both joyous and solemn, its rhythm weaving between comforting and unnerving. The cadence mirrored the duality of the night, the beauty of the moonlit forest offset by the shadows that seemed to shift just beyond their vision.

Some would feel their nerves settle, the melody wrapping around them like a protective shroud. Others would find their unease growing, the song digging into old, forgotten memories they weren’t quite sure belonged to them.

The journey continued in near silence but for the hum and the rustle of leaves underfoot. Eventually, the forest began to thin, the oppressive canopy above giving way to open sky. In the distance, just barely visible through the haze of moonlight, a small cabin sat at the edge of a meadow, its silhouette standing solitary and unyielding against the vast expanse of the wilderness.

Edrion paused, the hum fading from his lips, and gestured ahead with his staff. "There it is," he said simply, his tone as neutral as if he were commenting on the weather.

The closer they drew to the cabin, the more the forest seemed to retreat, as if the trees themselves respected the space around it. The meadow was blanketed in a thin veil of mist, glistening faintly in the moonlight. Edrion's cabin stood stoic and unassuming—a simple structure of weathered timber, its roof thatched and moss-laden, blending seamlessly into the wilderness around it. A faint glow seeped from its single window, suggesting a welcoming warmth within.

Edrion slowed his pace and turned to face the group. "Here we are," he said softly, his staff tapping against the ground. "I hope you’ll find it humble, but sufficient for a quiet night's rest."

With a creak of aged hinges, Edrion opened the door to the cabin. He stepped inside first, lighting a lantern that hung from the wall and casting the interior in a soft amber glow. The cabin's interior revealed a simple yet oddly comforting space. The walls were lined with shelves, laden with worn books and peculiar objects—a collection of odds and ends that hinted at a life rich in experience and mystery. A wooden table stood in the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs, while a modest fireplace crackled in the corner, casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn walls.

Edrion gestured for the group to enter. "Come in, come in. The fire’s warmth will serve you better than the chill of the night." His tone was welcoming, yet his eyes flickered with a quiet intensity, as if he were gauging their reactions to his home.