Zyamasiel

"Le'see what thay's teachin' ye nowadeys!" Red vs Camo, Fergus and Johnathan

War

War is the only institution truly as old as time itself, and over the centuries and the years one war or another seemed to always ravage the planet. Whether it was an open, universally seen construct, a battlefield that soon escalated to become the Earth itself, or simply the shadow wars that he’d fought for nearly half his life, before being forced into retirement because some new politicians didn’t approve of his methodology. Hell, from the age of five he’d been fighting his own personal, inner war. The war with the monster inside of him, the monster that demanded he hurt people beyond their limitations. He was a fighter, born and bred. His father, a military man for his entire life, instilled him with the desire to always come out on top. Always win. No matter the cost.

Now, here he was at the ripe age of 45, forced into retirement and living on the streets like some drug-addled bum. Months ago he’d rated his own private jet, an expense account that made Donald Trump look damn near poverty-stricken, and all the government sanctioned murder he could want. His personal armory included just about every gun on the market, every knife you could think of, and every neat little toy you could lay your hands on. Of course, all of that went with the job – and once the job was gone, he was left with nothing. Not even his own house, which the government seized in some trumped up terrorist accusation.

It wasn’t his fault the plane blew up, though it was the bomb he planted that caused it…and the number he dialed into his cell phone. Okay, maybe it was his fault, but the bastard aboard that he was after needed to be taken out. A lot more lives were at stake besides those few hundred people aboard that 747, and he was responsible for them. He saved them. Even if the government didn’t believe that, or simply didn’t want to take responsibility for giving him an open-license to do his job however he saw fit. Still, the past was the past and he had to move forward.

If forward meant living in a cardboard box behind the local MMA training center, eating whatever food he could scrounge from the nearby dumpster of a little Italian place. A few blocks down the road was a good Chinese place, and beyond that a shelter that offered to take him in. He wasn’t one for charity, though, and refused to take anything he didn’t earn. And, since his only method of earning was killing, his thoughts turned toward maybe doing some freelance mercenary work. He’d promised himself he’d never be one of those guys, but times were getting hard and he was constantly having to try harder and harder to find food in an ever-drowning city.

He was deep in thought, and munching on half a sandwich with only three bites taken out of it before being discarded in the trash, when the loud-mouth from the gym came outside. His words were spoken with a heavy slur that, if he wasn’t mistaken, deemed him an Irishman. He hated the Irish. Loud-mouthed alcoholics who spent more time trying to compensate for their lack of manhood centuries ago. Always fighting back against the Queen who owned their country, blaming her for their problems. Their problems came from their own inability to handle their lives. It was disgusting.

Normally, he’d have simply gotten up and walked away. Even the offer of money, which was substantial given his current situation, wouldn’t have moved him a few days ago. But today…today his stomach growled and his mouth watered. Today he was cold and tired of sleeping on the hard ground. He held up his finger as the man finished, indicating for him to wait a moment. He took another large bite of his food, chewed it up a few times and swallowed. Finally, he lowered his hand and pressed against the ground until he stood, his six foot height putting him just a little bit shorter than the other guy. Their weight appeared to be roughly the same, though again he was pretty sure the other had a couple of pounds on him.

“Hm...your offer sounds tempting. Honestly, I’ve been here a while and I’m hungry. I could definitely use the money.”

His voice held the same cold indifference he’d come to gain throughout his career, not caring or really feeling anything at all. His hands shifted as he let his over-sized, too big for his body coat slide down his arms and off into a pool on the dirty ground, though in this case the ground only got dirtier for the addition of his clothing. He kept his broken, sole-coming-off sneakers and faded, blood-stained blue jeans on though. His eyes caught the gloves, and he shifted his foot over to kick them.

“I won’t be using those, though. Tell me, kid, what’s your name? What’s the plan for when you lose? You gonna honor your bet? Can you honor your bet?”

Needed: Dueling instructor!

I'll help out, though I don't have any character sheets posted on here yet.

Getting Back To It (1x1 Super)

I don't have any profiles put up on here yet, but I can probably work something up pretty soon-ish. Sorry it took so long to get back to you, I've been working sixteen hour shifts to prepare for a three week Christmas shutdown.

Getting Back To It (1x1 Super)

Yo, I wanna fight.

No God's Sky

Far outside Cizran Space

"You know, kid, I just really don't get it. You've been at this for years, thousands of them I know about, and millions more than that likely. So...why do you keep doing it? What keeps you going forward, when you should have slipped into obscurity long ago?"

"Well, I don't really know, old-timer. Really, I haven't the faintest clue how I continue to push on in the face of adversity many would have already faltered beneath. How I continue to trudge this path of mine, through the cosmos and the very depths of space-time, to find the things that I seek. Though, I have to admit that the money isn't too bad, though it's not really the main reason for such excursions into the unknown as I make."

"Money? MONEY?!? You're probably the richest of all the denizens of the vast Multiverse, and that's saying something considering the vast wealth I've attained, and I know you've got at least a hundred times what I've got." Of course, the truth wasn't too far from what the man just said. Considering that his empire stretched nearly eighty percent of known space, and the money coming in from all the trading with what remained outside of their reach. Not even counting the new civilizations found nearly every hour, lurking in the shadows as they were, adding to their already boisterous sum of spendables.

"Yeah, well, you can never be too rich. I scarcely could afford to buy everything you own and continue to live in such lavish comfort as I have come to enjoy, you know." His eyes lingered on what passed for his friend, though how you could truly be friends with such a hedonistic, gluttonous fool was beyond his comprehension. Still, for now he was a friend, the only person he could rely on for steady work in this corner of space. Of course, the stars called his name nightly - seeking to bring him home to their embrace in the depths of uncharted lands and territories, far beyond his current scope.

"Don't make me laugh, child, we both know your wealth is already far beyond what any other might consider 'comfortable living'. In fact, I've decided it's time to end our arrangement. You're growing far too wealthy, and amassing far too much respect from the locals of my system. See, when that happens rebellions aren't far behind. And, really, that can't happen. Ever. So, you see...we're going to have to kill you and spin a story that paints you as a bad person, perhaps you're the reason behind all the recent attacks on our system, using a private army of monstrous creatures in an attempt to gain favor...yes...that'll do quite nicely, I think. GUARDS!"

The last word a scream that reverberated throughout the throne room aboard a ship approximately ten times the size of the Sol System's sun. It echoed for what seemed an eternity, but long before it ended a hundred armored troops, shock-lances and swords at the ready, stormed into the vast room and surrounded him. Pikes aimed for his body, their eyes filled with hatred, disgust, and deep, deep within them the fear that their death was upon them. They'd heard the stories, they'd known of this man for a thousand years or more. His exploits legendary and his conquests many. Yet, on the order of their king, they ran to what many, in their hearts, knew was their inevitable death.

"If this is the way you truly feel, Artur, then perhaps it is time our agreement was terminated." A single hand arose, its fingers clasping around the hilt of a sword whose blade stopped just the other side of the hand-guard. Once those fingers entrapped the elongated, elegant hilt the shadows all about the room began to pulsate. It was like they teemed with a life of their own, reaching and stretching.

Many of them moved, only to be replaced with others that moved away as well. An endless cycle, an endless source of power that stretched out until they slithered along his legs, working their way up his muscled body to become tendrils that latched against one another at the end of the broken blade - forging it anew.

"Your people hate you anyway, they always have. That's the only reason they cling to the idea of me, to the idea of a savior. Because you do nothing but oppress them, of course I'd have done the same if you weren't paying me to do otherwise."

The guards, as if to surprise him, launched themselves all at once. Their encirclement tightening rapidly, of course the only result of this was that these seasoned "veterans" made the fatal error of tripping over themselves in their rush to end this, and hopefully come out as the victor. Instead, though, the man holding the shadowed blade, which was currently twice again the length of his body and easily fifty-times his weight, dropped to a knee with a spin. The spin brought the sword around, cutting-edge first and caused it to extend outward. In a matter of one graceful movement, all motion stopped. His head was down, raven hair hiding the grey of his eyes and the slant of his angled face. For a moment nothing moved, no one said a word. Then one bloodcurdling scream brought reality crashing back around them.

Torsos slid from their place attached to legs and waists, blood pooled beneath bodies cleaved clean in two. The guards, who rushed so vehemently to accomplish their given task, were no longer living creatures - merely two halves of wholes that would never again be replicated or replaced. Canting his head upward, letting his hair part around his face and looking down his crooked nose toward his "friend", he let his eyes focus. The dour expression on his face unchanged from moments ago, he walked the length of the chamber until he planted one foot against the gellatinous throat of the other, holding the blob against its chair and cancelling whatever power of escape he might have conjured.

"Never betray me. That was all I said when this endeavor began. You knew what would happen if you did, and yet you refused to take heed of my warning. For that, for your ignorance and your insolence, you shall die now. Goodbye, Soguts."

With those final words, he slammed the blade home through the other's skull - siphoning from its very existence the essence with which it survived. In a matter of moments, with all of its considerable power gone, the gellatinous ruler of the land lay dead beneath his boot heel. Slinging the remainder of the blood and the grime from his blade with one motion, the shadows dissipated and he replaced the broken hilt into the string of souls, now numbering well over a hundred million, which contained it to his back.

Several years later. Cizran Space.

"How did I even agree to this? We find some signs of life off in an uncharted portion of space, and here I am again. Invasion and conquering are getting old, maybe next time around I'll try my hand at diplomacy."

The thought alone was enough to bring laughter from the depths of his throat, though there seemed to be no actual mirth invoked. The words he spoke, though he did speak them, carried no sound. Given the fact he was currently floating his body through space, without any protection (though he needed none), explained the lack of sound quite adequately. Still, he was being paid handsomely to investigate, and if need be subjugate, a few planets. Even after all those years, it still wasn't the money that drove his desires. He'd learned some time ago that money, while good for its own purposes, was far from the motivating factor for his actions. Instead, he realized, he loved the feel of life draining from bodies. The way their eyes shone brightly in that scant moment before all life was extinguished. He loved the sensation of death at his fingertips, and the way shock painted their faces every time. Putting it quite simply, he loved the very act of killing for the sake of killing.

Besides...he was good at it. Probably the best, really. The intention of showing diplomacy didn't really exist beyond the joke made inside his own head. The thoughts that drove him caused a slight change in his demeanor, and with it a change in the speed he traversed the darkness of space. Seeking out the first of many targets, he followed an energy signature quite a bit like the Liches he fought in the past. He felt it from hundreds of lightyears away, though only in that moment because it exerted energy to manifest certain creations. Though he wasn't aware of that fact personally. He only knew that more and more energy was exerted from that single area, and that was where he'd begin his subjugation of Cizran cultures.

"One, two. I'm coming for you." He sang to himself as he breached the atmosphere and began his descent into Killimaros territory. His pace quickened as his eyes, and his mind, scanned the planet. A distance off to the right, and behind him (perspective), a fiery red aura manifested and an explosion leveled the landscape. "There," he said, and the sound of his own voice surprised him, as if he'd forgotten what it could sound like. Given the time he'd spent in space, he likely had forgotten the very sound of it.

Adjusting his fingertips brought about an adjustment in trajectory, and with a single thought he accelerated his body to a velocity that would tear asunder the entire planet should he impact it at his current rate of speed. However, his target was not the destruction of everything - at least not yet. Instead, he simply wanted to arrive expeditiously. Those glowing creatures were a sight to behold, however, and he longed to see them up close - preferrably before they were completely destroyed by the guy with the stone embedded in his chest. Yes, even from the current distance, he could clearly see everything happening as if he was right up on it. Just before he would impact one of the Hellseeds, he turned his body and flipped around - letting his velocity slow to a much less devastating rate. His foot slammed into the largest of the creature's heads, and though his speed wasn't what it had been moments before, it was enough that he tore through the creature like a bullet through human flesh.

The creature itself split completely in half, and in that single moment his hand drew the sword and a million shadows coelsesced to form the blade of Caldecise, immediately beginning to purify, siphon, and transplant the energy contained within the vicious, nasty looking creature he'd just killed. The result was that Lysander himself drained and changed the energy source, pulling more and more of it within himself - bolstering his already incredible power. Standing at the base of what, moments ago, was a mighty creature he turned his head toward the guy flying directly at him, though moments ago it wouldn't have been him.

Swinging the massive sword around, the shadows formed a nigh-impenetrable barrier around himself so that any adverse effects of the other wouldn't actually cause him any harm, though a quick scan of his power told him that his threat level was fairly low to begin with.