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The Force Orbs floated about, and they launched themselves toward her with the intention of causing physical pain. Caitlyn saw no need to allow that, and her body undulated the musculature within. Her crystalline body moved forth and her right and left hands slammed together at the center of her mass. The force of it resonated a crystal ringing sound - and the power flooded forth from her body. The void was not simply something of purification, something that immunized her to magical energies. It stored them, and now she unleashed some manner of it with the slamming of one hand against the other.

The force of it resonated, dust flew forth from her body with concussion of her claps. The wind picked up, enough energy behind it that it could easily rip flesh from bone. Tearing muscles from limbs. The grinding force of it lashed out and the force orbs blew apart with the ferocity of the blow. If Preacher remained, his body would simply cease to exist. The blast would tear him to pieces, Caitlyn followed behind the blast, keeping pace with it. If Preacher stood there, and managed to survive the power of the blast itself without moving - she would be right behind it.

Fist upraised, her body turned and tuned to deliver a crushing, devastating blow of his superpowered fist.
To be fair, Lysander never expected to retrieve his blade - nor even really make it all that close. Gonad wouldn't have let him, anymore than a group of old men in a western bar would let a man get away with hiding aces up his sleeves. So, as the clatter of boots on the ground hit - and the arms of Gonad tried to encircle his lithe body - he reacted. His arms shifted outward. Counter pressure on Gonad's own, pressuring them apart and keeping him from fully locking his bear-hug. In that same motion, his right leg shifted and wrapped around the outside of Gonad's own - the top of his foot shifting to the back of the other's knee.

As the man began to lift him, he'd have to both try to tighten his arms further to keep them from slipping right over Lysander's head - and lift against the pressure of Lysander's foot pulling him back with the pressure of Gonad's own legs. And, to top it all off he flung his head backwards - as hard as he could. The back of his head intending to impact the point just beneath Gonad's nose. The result of which would break the grip, and probably trip Gonad over Lysander's own foot.

Of course, the headbutt wasn't a fight ended - but it would have the effect of knocking whatever few teeth Gonad might have loose from his head, and cause his eyes to water - not from pain, but that was just something of a bodily reaction to being hit in that certain location.
Pressure shifted - bodies changing position always caused a pressure shift in the area around them. Only, this time it was different. His instinct, centuries of training compounding into a single mind, told him there was something far different happening here. His peripherials showed the movement even as it began. The angles of their bodies required the grip to be slipped - and Gonad wouldn't have given that up for nothing. It also helped that the arm began to bend inward - and with the grip slip his arm was already moving into position to block the strike. By the time the elbow should have hit him in the temple - his fist was bent against the side of his own head - and Gonad's forearm lay across his own.

The force of the blow didn't change much. Lysander slid several feet away from the other man - tucking his body so that it didn't throw him to the ground - and instead allowed him to keep his footing. The distance created put him a distance away from Gonad - and his arms shifted. The arm the elbow struck was tingling, almost numb. But, not broken. And he wasn't on the ground. He was getting tired of playing Gonad's little games, honestly. The whole thing was beginning to get tiresome. Rather than even continue looking at Gonad, he began walking toward his sword. That didn't mean he wasn't ready, though.
A planet teeming with life, nearly idyllic in its beauty. People lulled about their days lackidaisically, without a worry or a care in the whole of the world. Why should they? Robots did their manual labor, machines designed and created specifically just to give them a hedonistic lifestyle. They were soft, as no threat loomed in their near future. Violence was all but eradicated from their planet, save outposts far from the hustle and bustle of the major cities. Even weapons were a thing of the distant path. If need be, the robots could defend them in their own ways - but as far as they knew, they were the only life in the Universe. For those fortunante enough to grow up within the walls of the vast, sprawling cities, it was a dream come true.

Stacey was one of those. She spent her days lounging, indulging in her every whim. A steady supply of food, men, and liquor kept her pushing onward in her life. Her father, the governor of Erebourus, supplied her with plenty of money to see to her every need. At twenty-six, she'd never worked a day in her life. Today, with the sun shining brightly overhead, she found herself lounging beside the emerald waters of her pool. Bathing suit barely covering her body, and her glasses shielding her from her eyes from the harsh rays of the sun. Androids with as near human appearance as one could give them patrolled the grounds. Their sharp eyes and sensor arrays ensuring no ne'er-do-wells entered the premises.

"Stacey, honey, would you mind coming in here for a second?" The sound of her father's voice was soft, gentle. A man accustomed to having everything handed to him, much like the daughter he raised. He was not a hard man, not a man of experience. He knew only what he learned in all his years of life in the docile city.

"Coming, father," she called back, wrapping her towel around her lithe frame and standing up. Bare feet carried her through the opened glass doors at the back of their house. Her father stood in the kitchen, his face belying the turmoil beneath him.

"Sweetheart, have you been having sex with the Griffin boy?" His words weren't harsh, he didn't have it in him to stand up to his daughter - to actually even imply a slight tone of anger. For her part, she just looked him up and down, smirking.

"Him. His dad. His brother. Even their mother, why father? Are you jealous?" She said mockingly, her silken voice barely hiding the undertones of excitement. She'd wondered when this moment would come.

"J...jealous! Prepostorous. They're attempting to extort me, you know. Threatening to release videos of your escapades unless I pay them!" His voice steadily rose, as the anger inside finally began to boil over. It was an emotion he was unaccustomed to, having never felt it in such a meteroic manner. "How dare you put this family in this position" He finally lashed out, the back of his hand striking across her jaw. The resounding crack splitting open her lip.

She didn't utter another word, and instead turned and ran. Out of the house, off the property - leaving her towel behind. She ran into the city, where she used a pretty smile and a silver tongue to retrieve some clothes from a local vendor. She walked the streets, greeting those who greeted her. Smiling at the young men and their fathers. Waving. Here, in the streets, she forgot about the happenings at home. She forgot about anything and lost herself in the tranquility.

Arriving at the local park, she sat on a bench and tilted her head back to look up at the sky. It was then that the first sign of something truly wrong came. A deep, sinking feeling in her gut that forbode something terrible coming. Something that would, she somehow felt, completely ruin everything they'd worked so hard to achieve.


Hunger. That was what she felt. An emotion circling through her, burning away all the rest. Heralds felt little to begin with, aside from the unsatible hunger. The indomitable need to eat, to consume. To destory. It flowed through them like blood through veins. It formed a hole that couldn't be filled. Though they tried. Planet after planet. People after people. They tried so hard. It was the hunger that brought her here, to this planet. It was teeming with life in the right places, and the General Cataclysm would find resources. For her? She would find much needed bioforce.

A high concentration of it sat below them, just beneath the belly of the massive Scourgebearer. It was there the invasion began, yet she did not join the Riflemutants. They fell from the belly to the surface with only a frenzied desire to feed, to kill. It was they that would wipe out the planet. No, The Voidmistress' task was different. Not to consume, not to feed herself - though she indirectly fed through the Hivemind. Her task was simple. Stop all opposition.

A scan of the planet showed nothing of the sort, save a man in the wildlands. He seemed alone, or at least near enough to it - and their scans revealed him as the only one with a weapon on hand. It would be Caitlyn's job to take him out. And trust that she was extremely good at her job. As the last Riflemutant fell from the Scourgebearer, it moved on. Not under any kind of control, save for its own sentient mind. The Voidmistress moved from the nerve center, slipping through the mucus-lined, membrane walls until she sat atop what could only be described as its head.

Finally, they came upon the semi-desolate wasteland town. Caitlyn looked down upon it with disgust. Disdain. That was Isaak, his mind was linked to her own - and even from a distance measured in the thousands of lightyears, she could sense his distaste of what she saw. She felt it so strongly, that it became what she felt as well. As the shadow of the Scourgebearer landed over the city, Caitlyn stepped down. The wind rushed past her ears, but she rarely noticed it.

Her legs hit the ground, and her knee bent. The concussive force of it blasted dust and sod around her - leaving behind a slight crater in her wake. For the first time, her body became fully visible to the people on the surface. A lithe, crystalline structure. Harder than any diamond with enough strength to rip the head off any creature she came across. The Voidmistress was aptly named, her body itself became a void. Looking upon it, one would see the swirling of galaxies and stars in the dark expanse that composed her feminine frame. Once, many centuries ago, The Marquise gifted her with this body. And through him, she became something more than another Val'garan Herald. She became an endless expanse.

She was wrought with power, filtered through the void from her enemies. Magic was useless against her, as if the void itself simply drained the energy which powered it - siphoning it into her self as soon as it touched her, purifying it. Changing and draining it. A sheer touch of her crystal body would drain the bioforce from the living, fueling her seemingly endless power. This man, this guy before her in the unbuttoned coat toting the rifle. He was the only registered threat. Her job was to deal with threats.

So, she supposed, it was her job to deal with him.
Lysander shifted as his hand was caught. Not only did his arm attempt to resist the turn, but he pulled backward - hard. Immediately as he felt the hand trap his own, he made movements to resist. His opposite hand shot across his body rapidly, grasping his own hand - as well as the hand Gonad used to grab him. Pulling and twisting against the arm lock - while also pulling toward himself. At the same time, his body shifted and he turned into the kick - pulling Gonad's arm across his chest and letting the kick land almost on the entirely opposite side of where the other threw it.

The blow of the kick caused his body to shift abit, but he was a man used to far more severe pain than this. Once, even, he'd been melted down into a pool of psionic waste and forced to live as a burned, charred trophy of another's might for centuries. That wasn't fun, but it had hurt a damn sight more than the kick. So, the bruising and reddening of his skin was painful - and the bruising of the bones beneath even more so. But, it wasn't detrimental to what he was enacting. The moment the kick landed, Lysander felt his chance and he took it.

He jerked hard, and torqued his hips against Gonad - lifting the others still planted foot from the ground. The other leg was midways back to the ground in that moment, so Gonad's balance would be an iffy thing at best. The momentum of his movement would launch Gonad several feet away, but that distance was still easily closeable and entirely within their effective fighting ranges. As the other man landed, undoubtedly springing instantly back to his feet; Lysander's unaffected hand grasped the recently freed one. Twisting and turning it, feeling the pain shooting through his wrist.

It wasn't broken, nor sprained, but it hurt. The result of the throw was pain he inflicted upon himself - and though it was worth it, the hand wasn't back to full use yet. Still, Lysander understood that the fight would continue. So, even as Gonad was likely getting back to his feet, he shot forward, shifting into a spin as he jumped and sending his right heel careening over to strike the right side of Gonad's face as he sought to pick himself back up from the ground.

He'd seen this one played out a thousand times. The bow, the stance. It was like facing a gladiator in a coliseum. Not that those fights ever mounted to much fun. The best part of that was the end, when you got to slaughter everyone in the crowd and absorb their power. Or, well, it was for him anyway. Then the man did something oddly curious. Rather than throwing a punch, swinging a kick - or even trying to headbutt him. He just...tried to basically poke him. Albeit with all five of his fingers extended, but having seen the drawing he could see where maybe Gonad didn't have any real intellect. So, maybe for him this was a poke? He wasn't sure, honestly. His compilation of data was complete, but that didn't change anything or tell him anything about what the other was trying to do here.

Suddenly, he dawned on him. As the fingers slowly made their way toward him, he realized he'd seen this joke once. Reaching up, he shifted his own right hand and let his fingers close over the index finger of Gonad, gently pulling on it just to see what would happen. If the man did what the joke implied he would, they'd share a good laugh before the fight commenced - assuming an actual fight ever did commence. Honestly, he was beginning to wonder if the guy wanted a fight or if he was simply trying to seduce him. Of course, Lysander didn't usually swing that way - but far be it from him to condemn another's lifestyle choice.

Still, though, power flooded through his veins. The shadows of his own organs shifting to bolster is already impressive physical stats. Though he'd never bothered to actually gauge the numeric values of his power, that didn't mean it was a default to zero. It simply meant he was more than capable of scaling himself to whatever level his opponent thought to be the baseline. And, as was the case, he did just that. His compilation of information from Multiversal selves showed him a rough idea of Gonad's capabilities, and so he scaled himself down to match. It was a great loss of actual power, but his melee levels remained roughly the same as he often kept them at.

The other would feel that, he was sure. Gonad seemed a veteran of combat, so surely he understood and could sense the strength within the white haired man. If not, well...that would be his own problem, not Lysander's. He couldn't be held responsible for the misjudgements of others, and he wouldn't take that responsibility. Instead, as he pulled the other one's finger - he released his grasp, and shifted slightly to the right, and one step forward. Just to ensure the other man's finger wouldn't actually make contact - and to be in the perfect position to hear (and likely smell) the outcome of the finger pull.
@The Harbinger of Ferocity
Since Doc Doctor dropped out of judging, could you come in for a judgement on this fight?

No, and no. Judges are to be AGREED UPON by both fighters - and I already told you I don't agree with either of these two. What part of that do you not get?
Even as he spoke, the other began to move - and honestly that was just rude. Interrupting a man mid-sentence, especially when all they wanted to do was drink beer, dick down some hookers, and enjoy an evening out without the madness of some upstart warrior trying to tackle him to the ground and pummel his head in. Eh, you can't win 'em all, they say, and they'd be right in most circumstances. This wasn't most circumstances. Even as the man began to turn his body, the shadows around them began to react. Not just his own, but every single shadow in the room. All of them. The people standing, the chairs, tables, even the shadow of the door itself. They all reached out, moving imperceptibly fast. The Flash himself couldn't catch those shadows on his best day. They all latched onto a singular point - and that point was their master. The man who wielded them with such insane efficiency, that it would be almost impossible to wretch them away from him. All the math in the world, all the strength in the world, wouldn't be of any use here.

The shadow of the door itself reacted at the speed of instinctual though - which is to say that even as the brutish man began to turn, and it became all the more clear what was happening - it began to create the biggest drag effect a man could have ever seen. That same drag amplified itself as it left the others hand, as the monstrous man's own shadow reached from behind him and grasped it - putting as much force the opposite way as it had going forward. The man had no need to move his body from the shrapnel, because by the time the shrapnel reached him its velocity was less than that of your average tree-sloth. The shards of wooden door meant nothing, and the concussive blast of the other's hands was strong - he'd give him that. But, Lysander once stood in the event horizon of a black hole, turned, and then walked away. That concussive wave had nothing on the force of that particular singularity.

It reached him, and he withstood it. His arms shifted a bit, his hair blew back - but other than that he came out of it completely unscathed. Not too shabby, really. Good thing he didn't rely on reaction times or complicated mathematical issues to determine how he moved or what he did. He was a warrior, born and raised. From the moment of his birth, he began training. Fighting, and the control over his magic, was an instinct. And nothing happens faster than instinct. The other would do well to learn that, but that was something that came with time. With experience, and this one? He was still fresh to the scene. Anyway, as the sharpnel came to its halt - the shadows released and they fell one by one to the floor in front of him. Though, the same couldn't be said for the people in the room. Afterall, they weren't really all that important. They lay dead, their bodies pierced or shattered. Their blood seeped out onto the floor, pooling beneath themselves - some touching others. It was a pretty gory mess, but a mess none theless.

All in all, the man put a lot of power into his attack - and Lysander did feel kind of bad about it being so insanely ineffectual. So, to make up for it in some small way, he reached to the table and grabbed a splinter. Pricking himself on the pad of his left thumb, allowing a minor amount of blood to drain, and then the wound resealed. Finally, though, he was beginning to consider this guy something more than a minor annoyance. He shifted his body a bit, pulling himself out of the booth. His sword remained unharmed on the wall, the precious materials making it up far stronger, and nearly as durable as Lysander himself. His eyes closed for a moment, and he took a deep breath. And though he could have done it with nothing more than a thought - he decided to voice the command.

"Come," was all he said, and come they did. The shadows coelesced upon him. Coming in droves, hordes. Thousands, millions. Shadows from the rain, shadows from the building. Shadows from the place where shadows were but moved. They bore down upon him furiously, some coating his body - shifting theirselves over his flesh. They formed not his Shadow Queen Armor, but the Godhand himself. Wrapping over him, clothing him in their darkness. Finally, they settled - at least the ones upon himself. If this one wanted to go all out, then he - to - would go all out. The sword floated on a sliver of shadow, touching his right hand before the wrappings fell away revealing the blackened blade. A sinuous red line the only contrast to it, as the gargantuan sword forged in the very spaces between Universes, with the blood of those 'verses themselves shimmered. The bar no longer held light, no, the lights were gone - and yet the shadows remained.

"You want a fight, gruesome? Well, you got one. I just hope you know what you're asking for."

The shadows not laying upon him floated behind him, tendril-like whips shifting to and fro constantly moving, constantly acting. Almost as if they held their own sentience, and maybe they did - or maybe they reacted on the pure instinct that Lysander harbored in his centuries old mind. Regardless, their constant motion created the perfect defense. Always ready to lash out, always ready to strike. Lysander, himself, was ready. His right foot shifted - and in the span of a heartbeat he was upon the other. His sword shifted behind him - the tip buried in the monstrous mass of the Shadow Well, and just as he began to swing the sword forward he shifted. That shimmering blackness overtook him, and as the sword swung toward the other something seemed...different.
"Hm, that's it, eh? A half-insult and you turn and leave? That was the easiest win I've ever been handed...though not sure why you had to kill those random dudes to give that assessment, but hey - whatever man. I love a good murder myself. Maybe when I'm done here, I'll track down your people and give them a taste of my blade. Or not...depends on the mood I'm in, I suppose. A lot of it depends on mood, you know. Killing, I mean. It's not willy-nilly, well not for most people. Sometimes it's just because I can, I won't lie about it. But, people in general. Well, not just people. Since you're not really a person, aye? Or do you consider aliens people? That's be a weird dichotomy to deal with, I'd think. What is and isn't a person...I wonder...does it have anything to do with souls? I have twelve of those, you know.

"Then again, I'm not sure that does it. Because I'm certainly not a person, at least not in the way most people think of someone as a person. I'm more of a...a monster, really. At least that's what the last few races I slaughtered called me. A monster. Some herald me as their God, too, though. So, I'm really not sure. You know these guys thought of me as a God once, when I first came here. Long time ago, been around these parts from time to time to check in on things. I really liked them, I taught them some things. They gave me their shinies and their women. A lot of that, women I mean. Not so much the shinies, not much use for them when you can just slit the throat of someone and take what you want. But, the women...mmm...I love women. Speaking of, your mom still alive? Aunt? Sister? Do you guys even have family like humans, or is it kind of the same thing with different made up names?"

He spoke nearly nonstop, ensuring that the other heard his words - even as he walked away carrying the door he'd just used to commit that most atrocious sin of murder. His words simply grew louder, more pompous. It was like he was trying to entice the guy into turning around and chunking the door at him, and the pale glow of light illuminating the area where he held the door only furthered that innate knowledge of what he intended to do. After all, why make a glow outside of a rave without a reason, right? Well, it didn't really matter. Lysander simply sat at his table, one knee propped up on the booth and his eyes watching the others back. While he spoke, his mouth moved - but no other part of his body made any perceptible movement. For all intents and purposes, he wasn't moving and he had no intention of moving.

All the while, though, as the words hung in the air and the other continued walking toward the door...which was taking an insanely long time for someone as brutish as he - the room continued to quiet down. It was like something was happening to each person, like some part of themselves was going missing. What was happening? Well, that wasn't really something that could be missed - if one were to look in the right place. The question was, would he? Would his eyes take in the room, or would he trip over his own feet. Probably the latter, they always did the latter. Honestly, Lysander could have killed him when he snapped on his nifty little lightbox thing. Just a slight movement of his fingers, and his skull would have been crushed under the weight of a star. But, he hadn't. He actually hoped this guy would give him something of a bit of fun before he died.

And they always died. Either slowly and painfully, or quickly and painless. That choice, ultimately, was one for them to make though. It all depended on what the guy did next. Would he turn and fight, like a man, or would he continue to cower and run? It didn't actually matter, his first attack would find itself useless either way you looked at it. With his eyes on the other person, his body made a faint shimmer - like darkness closing over it for only a slight second - and with the other looking away from him, unable to see him - it would go completely unnoticed.

Once more, his voice hung in the open air - the only sound other than the faint, heart-rate elevated breathing of a few members in the bar. "So, do you guys have families or not? I need to know who I'm going to be raping and murdering when I'm done flaying you open from stem to sternum."
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