HL 2:Games with Function part I
Episode Name: HL 2:Games with Function part I
Written By: Fortunae
Cast: Feline Assassin, Fortunae, Golden, Orutadaru Bodyguard, The Samurai and Utlara.
Produced By: Starfleet
Directed By: Fortunae
Aired On: Sun Apr 18 20:20:54 2004
Stardate: 54030.3
Time: Sat Apr 17 20:59:10 2004
Stardate: 54028.0
Previously on Star Trek: Anomaly...
... The Inquisitor says, "So choose, and free yourself from your lies. You may have one, either may save you here. One choice, two paths."
Turtledove curls her hands around the fabric of her pantlegs, eyeing the Inquisitor accusingly, bitter with the hard knowledge that there is only one decision. Her gaze remains that way before it shifts, softening as her eyes rest on the dark blade. "I didn't choose my nature." She looks back up at the Inquisitor. Her expression is rueful, but resolute. Give me my huntress. Give me Utlara.
The Inquisitor passes the blade over, pommel into the human female's hand, aware of her fingers instinctively closing on it. I'm not giving you the knife -- you are the knife -- And soon, Utlara you will be wielded again.
Utlara then finds herself in a ruddy lit chamber with the texture of stone. A gnawing buzzing sound torments the edges of her subconsious. She is not bound but finds the desire to move from her location pressing, and strange to be so in a far away thought though realizing such inspires no desire to hesitate. A dripping sound is occassioned to carry to her now and then as she sits in her tomblike cell.
A rolling, grating tone rasps from the left and a portal is revealed and Utlara moves through it with a predatory stride...
... The Inquisitor nods his large head, rising again to its full height after so long in a hunkered state. The Inquisitor take a full pace back, those encroached inches surrendered effortlessly. The middle hands reach inside the robe he wears and from those depths extract a long object and a shorter object so very familiar to the Samurai.
A Daisho
The Inquisitor extends the two scabbarded weapons enclosed in one hand so they are within the easy reach of the Samurai to take. He waits then.
Takamura's eyes widen again when he recognizes the objects held out for him. Slowly, he gets to his feet, dusting himself off. After straightening his topknot, Takamura stoically steps in front of the Iconian and gently takes hold of the swords. As he does this, the Samurai bows respectfully to the Inquisitor. Standing straight up, he then slides the two scabbards into his belt.
The Samurai slips his blades into his belt, snapping awake awash with cold, white light. So much light that his eyes wince naturally in the face of it, until, eventually, he is able to filter out the vague impression of walls and the vague feeling of being surrounded by water. There is no sign of the source of all of this light, and yet, he feels no urge to seek the answer either. And, aware of this odd lack of curiosity, he still finds no motive to remain where he is. A vague buzzing sound haunts the edge of his subconscious awareness. Somewhere, there is the crackle of what may be a fire, but he sees none, and smells no smoke.
The Samurai moves forward. Confident. Tranquil. Powerful. His steps create faint sounds upon the water, not quite splashes.
The Samurai's linear path takes him into the light and he is lost from view...
... The Inquisitor says, "You choose to see as real your choice" fallacious "To give away the drive They want. The drive They need. You are the puppet in the cage, unable to escape the choices that others offer, the limitations they give you in the name of responsibility." you must win. people are going to die. honour. duty. obligation. "You do what is right" by rules They choose "you do what is legal" by laws They make "and you choose to credit your rewards to chance because you will not take the responsibility of seeing what your responsibility makes you. It is easier to see the group," keep them safe "and accept your hurt when they do not accept that you are the hero who bears the great responsibility. That is easy, compared to this." discovering your function, seeing the actual boundries of your cage "You say you are not perfect. I think you think you are. The responsibility you choose is right and that chosen by others is lesser. You use reason, intuition, to see which responsibility must be adhered to when two or more are incompatable. You know things. You have the power to know the right choice" you're making a mistake "You believe you have it because you are responsible" follow the rules, obey orders, keep silent "and you are responsible because you chose to be responsible knowing that was the right choice. Your responsibility may be real but it is no more actual than the freedoms of a cage. Your responsibility is to choose what others give you to chose. What They give you to chose. Your choice is not freedom. It is not your function to choose freely."
Golden stands up to his full height, stretching. He considers the words of the inquisitor, lips a thin line.
Golden says, "I can choose to resign. I can choose to run away, spend what days ae left doing something else ... like being a recreational advisor on Risa. I can choose to tell their secrets. I can choose to keep them. Every human has the potential to be hero. Maybe every sentient has that potential, I haven't met them all so I don't know. There is no cage -- there is choice. I choose to be responsible. I choose not to break. I choose not to fail. I choose not to bend. I *do* have the opportunity to choose what is right because of the responsibilities I own. I do have an obligation to follow rules, obey orders, keep silent if I wish to keep the opportunities the responsibilities provide. It has been said by many a wiser philosopher than I that life, for a sentient, is about exploring the opportunities and the outcomes of their choices of Free Will. It has been argued by some that Free Will is a principal criteria for qualifying as a sentient. My life is not about function. I am a human being -- we aren't defined by a *function*. We may *serve* many *functions* in our lives but there is not one single *function*."
Golden says, "But as you reminded me... I *do* have a job to do. A job I choose to do. A responsibility I chose to accept."
Golden says, "It is not something I'm going to attend to staying here with you."
Golden turns and takes long strides into the nimbus of white light, leaving behind the pale creature. The sound of steps upon water, not quite splashes, reaches him. Time passes.
There is a slow cycle of dark-light. From somewhere, a persistant piercing beam flashes, intermittently, like light from a mirror. The two cycles mingle, dark-flash, light-flash... The pattern is random enough to avoid adequate prediction, but eventually, he is able to filter out the vague impression of walls and the vague feeling of being surrounded by water. There is no sign of the source of the fluctuation, and Dylan feels no urge to seek the answer either. Still, aware of this odd lack of curiosity, he still finds motive to keep walking until he is lost from view.
And somewhere, Dylan Golden snaps awake...
And now, on Star Trek: Anomaly...
197,725 B.C.E.
The Iconian Locus
Adjutant Keeper Thirvat clacks his mandibles over his console, two sets of hands gesticulate in agitation. He turns his multi-eyed visage toward his superior. "Master Keeper Ra'thok, something is wrong. The subject has rejected the sublimination therapy."
Ra'thok, hard-bristled hair toned with silver and grey, moves to join his junior assistant. "Rejected you say? How could a simian resist the Chok'los? Perhaps you are misreading the scan, hmmmm?"
"Respectfully, honored one, the scan is correct. The Human is rousing to wakefulness and is self-willed. Shall I destroy it now? Clearly it will not be suitable for service -- we will have to report this to the Ministry of Complience, so this species may be dealt with before it evolves into being a problem," Thirvat resolves.
Ra'thok strokes the side of his face with his upper set of hands. "Do you actually believe the results we got from RNA memory extraction? These ludicrous tales of a distant future where our people are but myths and primates such as this one govern thousands of planets? These stories of traveling through time? These tales of all species being as equals and sharing the galaxy? Surely you realize the very notion of this is heresy."
Three sets of arms shrug simultaneously, "The subject may lie, Master, but the memories? This is truly what this one has believed, and the details too fine to disregard. And he knew about the Rhana while the other two subjects did not. That information was forwarded directly to the Ministry of Security," the adjutant explains.
"You did this without my permission?" The elder keeper demands.
"Overlord Fazhool's directives were very specific regarding any leads as to the where abouts of the Rhana -- Minister Viermal was very agitated regarding the circumstances of these humans arriving. He suspected Rhana influence, that is why he wanted the location of their homeworld sorted out so the Eater of Worlds could be sent to dispatch them all immediately," Thirvat justifies. "We must take immediate action, it would bode ill if the Q'ists were to hear of this strange future."
"Indeed, Fazhool and the other overlords would be most displeased if the Q'ists were to learn of this strange future... or this subject that resists the Chok'los. It threatens the very notion that we are in fact superior to all destined to rule the universe as is our due," Master Keeper Ra'thok agrees.
Satisfied, Adjutant Keeper Thirvat bobs his head and steps toward the communicator to relay this latest development, but his progress is terminated by the cause of the sudden sharp metallic clang off the back of his skull. He staggers, head turning to see his mentor bringing the heavy metal tool up for another swing, gasping, "But why?"
"Because," Ra'thok says with vocal gentleness out of place with the continuing violence of his actions as he bashes the skull of his aide yet again, "The Q'ists have already learned of this information, and I will see to it that this human remains alive until we can determine how to best use this information. I'm sorry you were so loyal, my son."
There is another clank, the shadows of the wall affirm the lethal violence that continues, and then there is but blackness...
Four months later...
Fourth Courtyard of Humble Request
Overlord Fazhool's Palace
Baedran a Fazhool
The Iconian Locus
A howl, reptilian but too high-pitched to be a roar, tears through the octogonal compound as dozens of blue-clad, ninja-like figures leap from the wall blocking off the courtyard and land in the garden atop its stone-layed walkway. The reptilian sentinal readies it's pole-arm and releases it's warning again, the waddles of its throat vibrating as it signals. Through the heavy doors behind it emerges a much taller bipedal figure.
The menacing form of a large Samurai stands beside the reptilian guard. He is encased in the armor of his ancestors. Elaborately decorated in red and black silks, the metal and leather armor covers the large warrior from head to toe. The do protects his chest. The kote covered his arms. The suneate and haidate defend his legs. The sode protect his shoulders from blades or arrows. His head is covered by a large kabuto, that flares in the back to protect his neck. Rising from the center of the forehead of the helmet is a U-shaped piece like a flat set of horns. The warrior's face is concealed by the metallic menpo. This horrific face is that of a black demon with a menacing grin and blood red moustache. An obi encircles his waist, securing the katana and wakizashi to the warrior's left hip.
Fazhool's Samurai has arrived.
Swarming out of the doors behind him, The Samurai's bushi race to a ready formation, barb-bladed polearms at the ready. The Feline movements of the intruders suggest grace and agility, the roars that follow their bloody intent under a purpled sky.
A silent hush follows the intruders' calls of challenge... a long moment where the galaxy may hold its breath... then, sharply, movement and battle is joined...
The Samurai stares out at the blue-clad invaders, flames fickering in his eyes. Standing with his feet shoulder width apart, one ahead of the other, his right hand rests on the hilt of his katana. "Yet again you dare to assassinate Overgovenor Fazhool. And yet again you fools shall fall to my blade." Glancing quickly to his reptilian cohorts, The Samurai nods his head kurtly. Then with a flash of steel, he draws his blade with a howl. "BONZAI!!!"
Following his lead, the reptilians wade into battle with the felinoids, jabbing and slashing away with their polearms. Their fearless leader rushes into a mass of the enemy, bringing his blade directly down to strike his foe on the head.
<CONTEST> The Samurai contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Fails!
<PROVE> The Samurai has the merit of Battle-hardened at 3.
<PROVE> The Samurai has the merit of Athletic Ability at 2.
The nimble little opponent slides out of the way of the oncoming blade, trying to stick the big man in the side.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Dodge skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
"Ah, you are quick. But not faster than me," says The Samurai as his reflexes and do prevent the blow from landing. With a quick step forward, he slashes down again, aiming for the shoulder of the offending sword arm.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
And so, first blood is drawn. The katana's keen edge severs the arm from the invader as he screams in pain, adding to the growing din of battle. Falling to the ground, it is replaced by one of its fellow felinoids. The replacement then makes an attempt to wound The Samurai with its short sword.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Dodge skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
Moving like a kami, The Samurai avoids the feeble attack. Slicing horizontally, he intends to remove any more bright ideas from its head. All around him, blood squirts from cuts on both sides. His allies barely able to fend off the agile attackers.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Fails!
Being smaller that the Great Warrior sometimes has its advantages as the feline ninja ducks the blade as the air rushes over its head. Just then, a bright idea does cross its mind. While down there, it thrusts upward at the warrior's torso.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Dodge skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
With a bellowing laugh, The Samurai twists out of the way, kicking out with his right leg at the squatting invader.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Unarmed Combat (Aikijitsu) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
The little ball of blue tumbles back from the force of the blow knocking into another assailant. Taking advantage of the situation two reptilian guards lash out with their polearms to finish the job. Meanwhile, The Samurai wades deeper into the fray, his blade seeking out its next victim.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
Out of the rush and clash of the hurley-burley comes a larger figure in blue, a red sash marking it's bearer as one of more importance than the rabble that has previously presented itself before The Samurai. With a feral grace it attacks with a spin of its wrist...
<CONTEST> Feline Assassin contests his Primitive Weaponry (Sword) skill vs The Samurai's Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill (given advantage) and Succeeds!
The Samurai fells another of the intitial attackers when the red-sashed assassin spins its blade past The Samurai's defense, striking the armored sleeve on his arm. "Ah, they finally send a worthy opponent." After a step back, The Samurai rushes forward slashing downward rapidly several times.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Feline Assassin's Primitive Weaponry (Sword) skill and Fails!
*ting clang ting* The feline assassin turns aside the Samurai's flurry of blows with a fang-revealing sneer. "Your time has come Monkey, I will feast on your ears as a delicacy!" To punctuate this, the lither creature engages The Samurai again, attempting to catch the Katana and turn it from its wielder's grip...
<CONTEST> Feline Assassin contests his Primitive Weaponry (Sword) skill vs The Samurai's Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill (given advantage) and Succeeds!
The katana clatters to the ground as the Feline disarms The Samurai. Using the momentum of the disarming move, raises his leg up in a roundhouse kick to the overgrown cat's face. "We shall see, you rabid housepet."
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Unarmed Combat (Aikijitsu) skill vs Feline Assassin's Dodge skill and Fails!
The red-sashed feline spins under the kick, coming around with mighty torque angling it's blade toward the unarmored arm pit of the Samurai -- but before it can connect a barbed pike gouges it's throat which elicits an ear-punishing chortle of victory from the diminutive reptile that weilds the polearm. The Feline falls to its knees, weapon forgotten, hands clutching at it's mortal wound. Its eyes dialate in shock and confusion.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!
spins to the ground, rolls to recover the katana and decapitates the Feline Assassin in one graceful motion. Its head flies with an eruption of blood to land at the feet of its fellow would-be assassins. The remaining felines tuck their tails and rush back whence they came. The Samurai rises to his full height, sheathing his mighty blade and watching stoically the enemies retreat.
The Samurai spins to the ground, rolls to recover the katana and decapitates the Feline Assassin in one graceful motion. Its head flies with an eruption of blood to land at the feet of its fellow would-be assassins. The remaining felines tuck their tails and rush back whence they came. The Samurai rises to his full height, sheathing his mighty blade and watching stoically the enemies retreat before the great defenders of Overlord Fazhool.
The reptilian defenders roar their victory cries, waving their weapons in the air to chase off the felines. All the while, the black demon with a menacing grin and blood red moustache stares out at all the carnage.
One month later...
The Sanguine Theater
Baedran a Fazhool
The Iconian Locus
Under the violet and black, the Sanguine Theater thunders.
Thousands and Thousands of residents of Baedra a Fazhool clap their multiple sets of hands rhythmically, their wind-like cheers mixing with the steady slapping thrum. Amid the umber sand in the center court of the arena, bodies lay still and broken as well as crippled and crawling. The eyes of the iconians and their most priviledged of sophant thralls disregard that spectacle though in favor of the Primate That Will Not Die. The son of gold, does not heed their cheering, instead he focuses on the three opponants that try to take his life for the glory of their owners and the Pit Master.
His hair is brushed straight back from his forehead, giving a deceptive short appearance despite being grown out. The blue black hair of his head merges seamlessly with the beard and moustache that cover the lower portions of his face and jaw line. The cobalt blue eyes that look out from this face are intense, electric and compelling. The hard, defined-muscular form is lean and long, topping off at a solid six feet and four inches tall. He wears a red, boiled leather cuirass that reflects the chest beneath it in accurate detail, the shoulders are covered with protective portions of similar leather, but in black, which match the armor of the arms and the gloves upon the slender-fingered hands. The waist to the knee is covered with a skirt-like wrap of cloth that extends from the black high-collared shirt worn beneath the armor. Beneath the slitted end of the long tunic, baggy-fitting trousers are wrapped under scarlet leggings that cover the majority of the soft leather boots that cover the feet. There are two belts just below the cuirass, one that supports the pants, another that bears a scabbard on either side -- the blades for which twist in turn, one long and one short.
Stepping into the cluster of three after parrying a simultaneous attack, Dylan Golden spin engages two blades in either direction then launches a head snapping front kick to the face of the grey-skinned Etrisian before him. A back-flip carries him just away from the counter-strike from those remaining and the clash and sting recommences.
Meanwhile, in the stands...
"As much as the peons seem to favor this monkey, I believe I am growing tired of him Minister Viermal, at least as entertainment. Why is it he has not been assigned a proper master, he might compliment my servant or perhaps could be used for breeding stock for your own?" Overlord Fazhool lifts a goblet to his face so he might suck the fluid out while his other hands fold their fingers together indolently."
Minister Viermal siddles closer to the Overlord, his oily breezed words carry only a short distance. "According to Master Keeper Ra'thok, your potence, that subject was unfit for aught but the function he now serves. He was the most dimwitted and unschooled of the lot of them, Master Keeper Ra'thok suggested he was perhaps the baggage carrier in the service of the others, the metal circles on his garmet suggested he was of a different station completely, and he seemed more poorly fed compared to the other male your potence now retains."
Fazhool clacks his mandibles in annoyance, "Perhaps if he could just be taught to kill his opponants instead of leaving them unconscious or unable to fight?"
"We believe he may have been conditioned not to kill his betters, this would make him unable to kill anyone here, your potence," Viermal explains cautiously.
"Enough talk on the primate, what is the status of the Q'ist heretics?"
"Excellent progress has been made, your potence. My huntress is as good at her function as was promised, no cell remains free of her hunger long. Even now she is closing in on one of the primary camps of these rabble, she is silent and they do not fully appreciate the deadliness of such a meager species. We may want to consider breeding them as chatterling warriors for the periphery, your potence. I noticed that an expedition has been sent to collect samples from their native world..."
"Silence your windhole Viermal! There are matters I would not discuss while in revelry... as see, the primate still stands again and again he will not salute my august presence. He may be stupid, or just willful, either way, send word to the Master of the Pit to have him beaten instructionally."
"Of course, your potence."
"I will expect a status report on the Q'ists as the cantada this third cycle, it would not serve your well to fail me, Viermal."
"I understand, your potence. I will obey."
"See that you do." Fazhool leans forward, extending a hand to pat the back of his Samurai. "Do not worry little fellow, I ws only joking about the breeding of the female with your inferior -- soon she will finish her task and then you will breed her as much as you like. I will have an army of you... an army!"
On the arena floor, Dylan Golden is directed toward the gate to the pits -- but it takes a jab with the plasma-pike to force him to tear his attention away from the distant and unmoving Samurai...
Meanwhile, elsewhere...
Under-Baedran level seventeen
The circles of Mae'dran
Baedran a Fazhool
The Iconian Locus
Deep beneath the surface of the Locus in the undercity, darkness rules and shadows stalk. In contrast to this rule of life, a pale purple light fills a forgotten storage chamber where six Iconians, and a small collection of thrall species conspire unaware of the challenge about to be upon them...
A silver and grey haired Iconian in non-caste delineating garb whispers and clacks, "...and in this time races as yet unknown tasted by the lash of the Overlords hold dominion over the stars and play out dramas already played by we, and those that came before the ominipotence of ourselves. They too are observed and judged, and they make new monuments and new ruins in the crush and roil of their ambition. They seek to mature and know what is beyond just this one time, this one galaxy. We are but a memory -- this is fact, and the Rhana still survive. Is this telling of the wisdom of their path of benovalance rather than order? Or does it prove we are worthy, that we shall pass the final tests and become of the Continuum?"
A black haired Iconian speaks up reverently, "They who are the end and beginning, the agents of moving beyond, we beseech their forgiveness for the failings of the Overlords. Dominion is an illusion, we must trancend."
The group responds, "We must transcend."
Into their light silence arrives...
A heady mixture of danger and promise, Utlara moves, deadly grace, precision, no prodigal energy spent. But where is Turtledove? Utlara's brown eyes burn with a rare fire. Black stripes, interlaced, cross Utlara's child-like features in the manner of a tiger's skin. Her mouth is painted black-cherry red and strangely inclined to a neutral state --- one must look to the eyes of the huntress to read her intentions. Utlara's hair is swept-up in a short spiked mass, like black plummage, rampant. Her clothes are dark, functional, and minimal --- on closer inspection, most of her 'clothing' is black body-paint, again in the style of tiger's skin. Black leather covers the important areas --- gauntlets for the forearms, a thin yoke-neck shirt and loin-cloth for her torso and thighs, and high-laced black 'moccassins' for her calves and feet. At her side is her mind manifest, the 25cm Idisha blade, curved in the manner of an Andorian hrisal --- the black metal soul of Utlara.
Before the first ask of alarm can manifest, before the first cry of response, the Idisha blade clears its nest and the Huntress is unleashed among the fold...
Utlara strikes the black-haired Iconian, her closest opponent. With this single, slicing action, perhaps she can rend him slightly asunder. Through the darkness, her intentions are clear. Her eyes are smiling.
<PROVE> Utlara has the merit of Weapon Master at 2.
<CONTEST> Utlara (claiming advantage) contests her Primitive Weaponry (Knife) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
The Iconian falls before his blood can rise to the long thin mouth of the cut. The blade glistens fully with the ochre stain of his blood, however, testamony to the mortality of the wound. The blade does not stop to revel. She steps behind the falling Iconian, blocking attacks from the left, while challenging two more: one from the right, another Iconian, and one from the back, a four-eyed, four-eyed Efirsian.
<CONTEST> Utlara (claiming advantage) contests her Primitive Weaponry (Knife) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Succeeds!
<PROVE> Utlara has the merit of Bold at 1.
<CONTEST> Utlara contests her Unarmed Combat (Starfleet Martial Arts) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
Utlara glides forward and up, dealing death to the right, felling another Iconian. Then she pivots, narrowly avoiding the Efirsian's attack, to her back. She tsks, mentally, her eyes brightening. She uses his momentum to trip him. His back presented to her, she thrusts the blade into his skull.
As the silver-haired Iconian retreats quietly, meanwhile, the thrall-species step-up. Fyrtans, Skeerians, and Efirisians. Utlara rises and half-smiles, invitingly.
<CONTEST> Utlara (claiming advantage) contests her Primitive Weaponry (Knife) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> Utlara (claiming advantage) contests her Unarmed Combat (Starfleet Martial Arts) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> Utlara (claiming advantage) contests her Unarmed Combat (Starfleet Martial Arts) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
The three remaining Iconians take to the fringe, disgusted and angered, but still somewhat smug, shouting directives to their thralls to the effect that they should take care of this quickly. A pack of Skeerians, five in total, leap around Utlara, quick, furtive. They are obviously not highly-skilled, and each one is dealt with. Slice. Slice. Thrust. The first three are dispatched in a grisly display. The fourth is unceremoniously pushed backward, into the fringe, while the fifth is kicked to his knees.
<CONTEST> Utlara (claiming advantage) contests her Primitive Weaponry (Knife) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> Utlara (claiming advantage) contests her Primitive Weaponry (Knife) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!
And Utlara falls to her knees and wraps her arms around the fallen Skeerian, drawing the blade across his neck. Pushing off of his lifeless body, she rises, to face the three cat-like Fyrtans. This is a slower game. They circle her, she circles them. Eye-contact is essential. As are their grrowling taunts, meant to distract the knife, but the knife is rapt, and moves in it's own distracting rhythm. She waits. And they come. Utlara cuts them down with three swift slices, front, back, front. Their own knives clatter to the ground, clean.
Then, in the darkness at her back, a scrambling noise draws Utlara's attention --- the blade is lanced with bold direction, finds it's mark, and pins the last Skeerian, in retreat, to the wall.
<CONTEST> Utlara (claiming advantage) contests her Primitive Weaponry (Knife) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> Utlara (claiming advantage) contests her Primitive Weaponry (Knife) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> Utlara (claiming advantage) contests her Unarmed Combat (Starfleet Martial Arts) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
So, the Efirsians find their way into battle, the relative juggernauts that they are. It's all about bashing and wrestlin' with these guys. Steady progress backwards to retrieve her blade is briefly interrupted by a four-armed attempt at something like a pile-driver. But having an opponent with four arms just means he has more handles, and therefore, more leverage. Utlara takes him side-ways and twists, settling a palm upwards to his chin for good-measure. He crumples to the floor. In this brief respite, she reaches up and plucks her blade from the wall. The dead Skeerian thuds against the ground as Utlara turns to face the last two Efirsians.
From the tunnel on the opposite side, the last sounds of the Silver-haired Iconian's escape carry to the alert ears of the hunter.
And slice. Slice. As the four-armed humanoids fall to either side, their rapidly retreating masters are clearly revealed. Utlara's blood quickens. Pursuit must ensue. Her success is immediate, in the darkness, and she takes them down with unceremonious swiftness. No prodigal energy spent. As she looks up over the fifth Iconian, pinned and dying beneath her, a quietness falls across her brow. Realization that the sixth, the silver-haired one, has gotten away. She considers this, then plunges the blade into the fifth, a final blow. No sense in crying over lost quarry. There are always more.
. o O Utlara feels satisfied and free.
Several hours later...
The Pits of the Sanguine Theater
Baedran a Fazhool
The Iconian Locus
Under a shower of water, Dylan Golden’s upper body is seen. Old scars mix with newer ones, and welts and bruises, demonstrative of his former and current profession. Hanging on a peg within easy arms reach is his weapons belt, ignored perhaps while he brushes his fingers through the increasingly unruly mop that is his hair. A skitter-clack sound ends the illusion of unwariness, his head whips, hair flying at with centrifugal force as a hand catches a hilt and yanks, steel clearing with a *shing* sound. Dark blue eyes pierce from beneath a mop of damp strands of hair, questioningly. The top of a Skeerian’s head is visible just above the stone wall that separates the shower at waist-height, slim greenish hands set a bowl with steaming contents on the top of the wall.
"Grrsshk’ta’tanan Ning, brothrok chulzaH!," Dylan says, a smile emerging from within his beard as he waves with one hand and replaces the sword within its scabbard.
"Griz’cho Ning Ning! Gull-dan, perzhee kago," the diminutive being responds, returning the wave and skittering off, it’s tribute delivered. Golden considers the bowl a moment longer and then steps back under the shower, scratching at his beard with fingertips brought to bear by tiger-clawing his fingertips. Stepping back out of the water his eyes widen, startled as an unexpected presence is found before him.
"Keeper Ra’thok, what an unexpected surprise, to what do I owe the honor?"
"No time for idle pleasantries, sophant. Utlara found and slaughtered Bree’shnees cell this evening. We need to move up the timetable."
"I’ve told you before, I’m not leaving without my officers."
"They are *not* your officers anymore, Sophant. Why do you not understand this? There is no cure to this process."
"Listen, *master*, I’ve helped you for months now. Taught you how to evade their Overlord’s sweeps, how to wage guerilla information warfare, made the example you wanted by not taking lives in the Arena. But you agreed to help me free my officers. Now when are you going to get into the Intendant’s Scriptorium and get that counter-measure for my people?"
"That was the subject of the meeting, we believe we have something but… it remains inconclusive. Regardless, you are in danger, the Overlord grows tired of your dissent. Are you confident your plan will work –" Ra’thok’s question is cut off by the approach of hurried skittering claws. “Krrech-cha togosakai!” The Skeerian warns.
"Another time Sophant,” Ra’thok stipulates, I better not be found here when the Pit Master arrives. Until Transcendence."
"May Ifni favor your endeavors." The two non-humans make mutually exclusive departures, if equally hurried. Golden steps up to the side of the wall and lifts his bowl. He wrinkles his nose, but lifts it higher and drinks in rapid gulps even as the sounds of the Pit Master’s approach come unmistakably closer.
Pit Master Dhof’phor puffs out his form in a manner intended to be intimidating, but his careful measures to stay outside of the blade arc of the lean human undermine this effect, at least to the Martian. "Another glorious day, Son of Gold, but again you taint your victory with unrepentant mercy. Do you not know the hardships you bring to the masters of those animals when you defeat them without killing them? Food, treatment, confidence therapy – none of this without cost and who do they blame? Dhof’phor, that is who. Why can you not make this primate finish his function? They ask me. I tell them I do not know, you seem built to kill but you hesistate, surely I am cursed – yet you are too valuable to simply put down like any other unruly beast. The crowd finds your defiance charming and naïve – but you are taxing His Potence’s patience with your refusal to salute his box. He has ordered you to be beaten."
"If you feel that having me beaten is wise, then you will do it," Golden says, words submissive, eyes promising death for those who may attempt such actions.
"Why do I tolerate your insufferable attitude, Son of Gold?"
"I am the only one of my kind in the arena, it draws the tourists, particularly the trans-gate tourists."
"Ah, yes, there is the matter of profit and thus the fulfillment of my function. Consider this your last warning."
"I look forward to it being such, Pit Master Dhof’phor, thank you."
Dhof’phor gesticulates with it’s several arms, trying to read the human’s inscrutable facial expressions; eventually he huffs in annoyance and retreats, leaving the monkey to its hygiene ritual.
Time: Sun Apr 18 12:20:25 2004
Stardate: 54029.5
Later...
Dome of the Cantada
Overlord Fazhool's Palace
Baedran a Fazhool
The Iconian Locus
In the circular, and massive, Dome of the Cantada eerier woodwind and chime music fills the chamber with sound over the din of conversation. Iconians turn in ornate and arcane patterns on the dance floor, not touching, but turning in different direction as if drifting, almost touching and then moving an alternate direction -- yet not one stumbles, not one falls, orderely chaos.
Upon a throne of hewn ruddy stone, Overlord Fazhool sits casually; Minister Viernal standing just behind the seat and to the right side. On Fazhool's right, another tall Iconian that radiates fierce personality. To this one, Fazhool speaks.
"I too grow weary on this Cantada, Overlord Ffrrtza. If I didn't know better I would almost think the modern dances were influenced by the philosophy of the Q'ists. Shall we provide an alternative divertisment?" Fazhool asks.
"What do you have in mind," OVerlord Ffrrtza inquires.
"I am to understand that you have two of those Orutadaru trained to be your personal bodyguards? I have often heard the Orutadaru were untrainable for more than shock troops or manual labor."
"Yes, they are pleasing, if crude. My Master Keeper developed a new technique that has brought them right in line."
"Excellent. Here is my suggestion then, you're two Orutadaru against my Prim-- no, what is the, ah yes, Terran."
"Interesting, but what are the stakes?"
"If I win, you give me the forest moon of Cosshalana; if you win I give you the Orosco system?"
"Hmmmm, very well, let it be so." Ffrrtza claps all three sets of his hands and momentarily two ursine figures with sporadic pieces of armor and wicked looking swords that look very much like oversized butcher's cleavers approach and bow. Ffrrtza clacks his mandibles with satisfaction toward Fazhool -- Fazhool responds by snapping twice, from behind the throne, unseen all of this time, comes The Samurai.
Out of the darkness behind the throne the broad Terran in red and black armor emerges, silently passing next to Frrrtza to stand in front of Overlord Fazhool. Holding his matched blades in place with his left hand, The Samurai bows to his Master, eyes barely glancing at the lord. Instead, his senses seem attuned to the two ursine body guards.
Fazhool rises, pleased at the disconcerting effect his Samurai has on his peer, and claps his hands calling for silence. In moments the crowds of dancers have made way for spectacle instead -- the two hulking bear-like warriors hunker down into three-point stances, the unused hand holding the handles of their weapons which glint with the purple light from the nebula above. Across from them a span of steps, The Samurai waits in studied stillness for the words of his lord. And that word comes, the Orutadaru growls fiercely as they charge with surprising speed for creatures so large...
<CONTEST> Orutadaru Bodyguard contests his Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill vs The Samurai's Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill (given advantage) and Fails!
<CONTEST> Orutadaru Bodyguard contests his Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill vs The Samurai's Dodge skill (given advantage) and Fails!
GAME: The Samurai spends a courage point.
As the Orutadaru close on him, The Samurai waits patiently, hand on the hilt of his katana. Just as the first one swings down, he draws his blade to parry the cleaver and deftly sidesteps the other attack. Continuing his circular movement, The Samurai slices at each of the bodyguards as they rush past him.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Fails!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Fails!
...the Katana flashes and cuts *schitk*, and the Samurai continues his side-stepping wheeling motion back-cutting toward the other, *schitk*. Armor is bypassed and blood begins to gout, both of the Ursine roar with anger and frustration, and then adjust thier charges to close and attack The Samurai again with their heavy, wicked blades...
<CONTEST> Orutadaru Bodyguard contests his Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill vs The Samurai's Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill (given advantage) and Fails!
<CONTEST> Orutadaru Bodyguard contests his Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill vs The Samurai's Dodge skill (given advantage) and Succeeds!
The Samurai manages to parry the first cleaver with his katana. However, it takes a great deal of effort to deflect the blow. This allows the other Orutadaru an opening at his shoulder. Fortunately, the sode of his armor protects him from all but the force of strike which causes him to step backwards. The Samurai slashes his blade upward from the lower right towards the upper left, hoping to score hits on both opponents.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill and Fails!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill and Succeeds!
While the clash of will and steel manifests on the dance floor, the shadows behind the throne of Fazhool release a shadow that walks, Utlara, who moves beside her master, Minister Viermal. The Iconians notes her arrival, and without taking his attention from the drama on the floor, wind whispers, "Your hunt?"
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Fails!
... One of the Orutadaru deflects the Katana from it's course, avoiding another cut -- the blade continues on, readjusted to target and over the guard of the second Orutadaru, cliping off a good inch of it's nose before finishing the arc. The response is loud and savage, the Orutadaru close to finish the monkey once and for all, taking powerful swipes with their tools of butchery...
<CONTEST> Orutadaru Bodyguard contests his Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill vs The Samurai's Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill (given advantage) and Fails!
<CONTEST> Orutadaru Bodyguard contests his Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill vs The Samurai's Dodge skill (given advantage) and Fails!
"One escaped." Utlara stretches languidly. "The rest are dead." She glances to the arena, no remorse, no apology.
Minister Viermal flutters his mandibles, "You will find the one that escaped." Not a question.
Narrowing his eyes as he studies his opponents movements, The Samurai yet again avoids damage as he swiftly parries and dodges the incoming blows. He continues the fluid arcs of his blade, searching out the weaknesses in their own defenses.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill and Fails!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill and Succeeds!
Beatific fire flares in Utlara's eyes, turbulent. She half-blinks. The fire recedes back to a steady flow of heat. "As you say." She focuses on the master. A very slight, perhaps warm, smile follows. A lingering glance to the arena ensues... then Utlara turns in silence and disappears, resuming the hunt.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!
...*CLANG*, the katana is sharply brought short as the noseless Orutadaru's blade clashes against it. The Samurai spins in a circular fashion away from the impact, reversing the facing of his blade's edge smoothly as he extends her arm out in a straight line. The blade slips through air and the neck of the other Orutadaru with equal ease and the mighty ursine head flips off the body's shoulders spinning through the air as the body collapses heavily to the floor spending life's blood... the Noseless Orutadaru roars its outrage and brings it's blade around in a might arcing swing...
<CONTEST> Orutadaru Bodyguard contests his Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill vs The Samurai's Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill (given advantage) and Fails!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Fails!
Silently, The Samurai spins back to face the remaining Orutadaru. Squatting slightly, he swings the katana to meet the arm bearing the incoming cleaver, effectively avoiding the broad blade.
... The Orutadaru turns enough so that Takamura's blade catches more armor than arm and then double-hands the grip on his blade and backswings it toward the Samurai as if swinging for the fences...
<CONTEST> Orutadaru Bodyguard contests his Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill vs The Samurai's Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill (given advantage) and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Coordination (Dexterity) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Fails!
The cleaver strikes The Samurai squarely in the chest sending him flying backward with the extra propulsion from his escaping breath. After several seconds of airtime, the Terran lands in a pile with his blade skittering across the dance floor.
The crowd of onlooking Iconians cheer at this dramatic reversal, just as they applauded the decapitation. Overlord Fazhool rises from his seat, peering to check on his Samurai's condition. Ffrrtza observes, "Your primate did well, but it's all over now." Fazhool clacks his manibles pointedly, "Shall we double the wager then, you add in the Horosstha system and I include Badi-Porshhssa?"
Ffrrtza, "A bold wager, and I would be the fool to decline it as much as you a fool to offer, agreed."
The Orutadaru roars with satisfaction, and then charges after the flying and sliding Samurai...
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Athletics skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
The Samurai shakes his head to clear the ringing, then kips up to his feet. Planting his feet, he prepares to toss the onrushing Orutadaru using its own momentum against it.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Unarmed Combat (Aikijutsu) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Unarmed Combat (Wrestling) skill and Succeeds!
The floor quakes as the Orutadaru thunders towards the Terran. Lowering his shoulder and pivoting on one foot, The Samurai places his hands on the torso and waist of the ursinoid, flipping it onto its back a few meters away. He then uses this opportunity to try to reclaim his sword.
Landing with a heavy crashing thud which leads into a slide on the smooth floor, the Orutadaru scrambles to its feet. Growling as it realizes The Samurai has recovered his blade, the ursine roars again and then rushes, bringing it's blade back and then in an upswing edge front with every intention of splitting the Human from stem to sternum...
<CONTEST> Orutadaru Bodyguard contests his Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill vs The Samurai's Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill (given advantage) and Fails!
The Samurai braces for the attack, deflecting the cleaver to glance off his own blade. The stoic warrior seems unfazed by all the roaring. Contining the upward stroke he deftly brings the katana back downward in two quick diagonal slashes.
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill and Fails!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Fails!
... The cleaver deflect one of the diagonal cuts but is unable to match the second slash's speed and folded steel bits deep. The Orutadaru's left arm gives, forcing it to use a one-armed grip again, which it does in the service of a neck-level cross chop with the sinister blade...
<CONTEST> Orutadaru Bodyguard contests his Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill vs The Samurai's Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill (given advantage) and Fails!
...The Samurai manages to get his sword back up in time to block the cross chop. Aiming at that same side of the body as the wielding arm, he tries to strike back with another two cuts. His black mask disguises any attempt to discern what he is thinking and instead glowers back at the large beast...
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Orutadaru Bodyguard's Primitive Weaponry (Great Cleaver) skill and Fails!
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!
...Fire glows from behind the eyes of the mask as the keen edge of the katana lifts the Orutadaru's head from it's shoulders. The second strike fails to connect as the limp corpse collapses to the floor. The severed head arcs through the air, spraying blood everywhere. Once it lands and rolls to a stop, the Orutadaru's lifeless eyes stare up at it's Master. And in a single move, The Samurai sheaths his honor, takes a knee, and bows his head to salute his Master Overlord Fazhool.
The Iconians attending the Cantada appluad the sport even while thralls hurry to clean up the mess left behind and prepare the floor for more dancing. Overlord Fazhool nods his head and claps with his multiple sets of hands before looking toward his peer, Overlord Ffrrtza, "It would seem we have some administrative taks to file, dear Ffrrtza -- ah, these primates, so talented, why, if left unsupervised they might actually become an annoyance some day." He laughs at this, a laugh indicating this is not a circumstance ever likely to happen...
A week later...
The Sanguine Theater
Baedran a Fazhool
The Iconian Locus
As the red and black armored human steps up from the ramp to the pits and into the open air of the Sanguine Theater, the crowd's reaction is thunderous -- a special surprise has been promised for this day's entertainment. There are whistles of dislike as the Martian makes his way toward the center of the arena floor, there are many who disapprove of his refusal to kill his opponants, and even more who are simply trying to show loyalty to the Overlord as word of his dislike of this condition has spread along the gossip mills.
In the stands, Overlord Fazhool reclines in his customary position, his metal encased Samurai silently standing before and to the side of him. Fazhool gestures with the middle left hand toward the announcer who promptly addresses the attending audience.
"Enlightened Sophants, the Sanguine Theater is pleased to present a grand spectacle for your entertainment. Much has been made of the mysterious origin of the Son of Gold, and his potence, your benevolant host Overlord Fazhool has spared no expense to collect more of these "Terrans" to be your source of show."
As the announcer speaks, the opposite side of the arena's gate opens and a collection of lurch walking humanoids come out into the view of the gathered. Long, tangled hair of brown hangs shaggily from the tops of heads and faces of the males. Their skin is swarthy, indicating much time spent under a star, not the nebula. The foreheads are sloped making the brow heavy, the features are close mashed to the skull, teeth tending toward the buck, noses thick and insulated. Upon their hirstute forms they wear unfashioned animal skins, in their hands they clutch wood and bone handled tools with sharpened rocks tied with animal gut and grass twine. They make a protective half circle as the smaller females follow them out, similar in feature and garb, though unarmed. The eldest male raises his head and makes a strangled hooting sound, waving his axe warningly toward the stands full of Iconians.
"Straight from the planet Terra we have brought a fierce collection of warriors -- and females as well. The Son of Gold now has incentive to carry his battle to its appropriate conclusion. If he wins, the females are his for breeding, and as always, should he lose, we will remember his time here fondly and watch these new Terrans for equal vitality in the Sanguine Theater. With no further hesitation... let the games begin!"
Horns sound and from below the line of easy view, standing on the pit ramp, the Pit Master gives a series of short commands to which the Neaderthal respond to by charging across the arena toward the human who narrows his eyes and sets his jaw furiously.
"These are not my people!" He challenges. "These ARE NOT MY PEOPLE!" He roars shaking his fist, the smaller hominids draw short and circle around him, one hopping closer then hopping back chattering and jeering another on the opposite side to do the same thing. Golden stretches to his full height, towering over the smaller proto-humans. "Don't make me hurt you, just run." This inspires more baring of teeth and hooting and jeering, until one brave soul tosses a rock toward Golden.
Dylan sidesteps the throw and shakes his head, "You don't understand what is going on, and you don't have any choice. I'm sorry, but I cannot let you get enough courage to hurt me." With that, he bends at he knees and with a loud "Keee-yai" launches himself toward the closest cluster. Without hesitation he throws kicks, elbows and backfists wading into the small if strong creatures with cold resolution. As the first axe strikes his armor he pulls steel and then cuts the handle in half, which inspires more cries and jabbers. It's not a fight so much as a rout before it started and the last of the homimids runs back toward the females in flight before the angry Martian.
Golden draws a breath in again, "These ARE NOT MY PEOPLE!" This time directed toward the box of the Overlord.
Fazhool has watched this entire demonstration with mixed interest and he leans to his left to order Minister Viermal, "Go and find out if the wrong planet was visited, they seem similar enough in basic shape but they also seems different if related. See to it immediately, and if a mistake was made, find out by whom and have them killed." Fazhool then regards the gibbering human with his multiple sets of eyes and decides the primate needs more humility drummed into it. He regards his Samurai then says, "You Samurai, go teach the Gladiator proper respect, but try not to kill him unless he proves just too insubordinate." As the Samurai begins to make for the arena, the nearby crowd realizes what is about to occur and erupts in anticipatory adulation, even while the Neanderthals still mobile are herded off the field.
At his Master's command, The Samurai bows repectfully before proceeding down to the arena floor. With measured steps, he approaches the unruly Gladiator. Once mask to face, he calls out, "You disrespect my Master Overlord Fazhool. Such disrespect will no longer be tolerated. I will show you your proper place." Staring at the Gladiator, The Samurai rests his hand on the hilt of his katana in preparation of the fight to come.
Golden narrows his eyes and regards the approach of the Samurai. When the words are spoken he says in a measured tone, below the range to carry to the crowds that howl and whistle in excitement. "Lieutenant junior grade Takamura, assaulting your commanding officer is a violation of Star Fleet regulations. You will bring dishonor to yourself and your father if you raise you blade against me. Stand down, *Lieutenant*."
<PROVE> Golden has the merit of Ambidexterity at 2.
<PROVE> Golden has the merit of Martial Artist at 2.
<PROVE> Golden has the merit of Battle-hardened at 3.
At the utterance of those words, The Samurai pauses slightly. The ghoulish mask with red moustache conceals any recognition, if any, of what the Son of Gold says. "You are mistaken. I am Samurai! I know not of whom you speak. Now prepare to receive your lesson." His fingers flex as they curl around the hilt.
Golden says, "Takamura Hiroshi, Service Number 419-1854-10336, Lieutenant Junior Grade, Starfleet. Born, Kyoto, Japan, Eastern Alliance, Earth in 2347. Son of Hideaki and Masago, brother of Kishi, father of Mauno. You are more than a Samurai, you are a Starfleet officer, a son, a brother, a father. *Focus* Takamura Hiroshi-san."
Taking several breaths, The Samurai blinks almost imperceptibly behind his facade. Starting softly, a growl begins to emanate from the large man. "You LIE! You don't know me, you insolent wretch! Now you will taste my steel!" And in the blink of an eye, the katana clears its scabbard. The Samurai rushes the Gladiator with his blade raised to silence this poor excuse for a fighter.
Fortunae draws one and then two blades, twirling each in the controlling hand he adopts a ready stance, "STAND DOWN LIEUTENANT! That's an ORDER!"
Golden draws one and then two blades, twirling each in the controlling hand he adopts a ready stance, "STAND DOWN LIEUTENANT! That's an ORDER!"
The Samurai continues on his path determined to silence the liar. "I am no Lieutenant to you. I serve Master Fazhool!" With those words, he strikes downward towards the Gladiator's shoulder.
GAME: The Samurai spends a courage point.
GAME: Golden spends a courage point.
<CONTEST> The Samurai contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Golden's Dodge skill and Fails!
...completely turning his body in profile, Golden gives The Samurai nothing but air to slice, but plenty of that. Sliding his blades into an X to create the metal on metal sound he insists intensely, "Don't make me hurt you Hiroshi -- *FOCUS*. You've been conditioned, brainwashed. Fazhool is *not* your master, Takamura Hiroshi-san!"
Meanwhile the crowd roars as the fight has begun in earnest now...
Growling louder at his miss, The Samurai spins around to again face his opponent. "I am Samurai. Fazhool is my Master." Again, he slashes at the Son of Gold, fierocity burning in his eyes. The words seeming only to enrage him further.
<CONTEST> The Samurai contests his Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill vs Golden's Dodge skill and Fails!
GAME: Golden spends a courage point.
Golden says, "What is the Talisman of your fixation, Takamura Hiroshi-san? The outfit? The sword? If I take them from you does that break the conditioning?" He steps back in after sidestepping the viscious strike by The Samurai, short sword leading in a thrust, long blade moving to catch the Katana... "Let's find out, shall we, Lieutenant?"
<CONTEST> Golden (claiming disadvantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Sword) skill vs The Samurai's Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> Golden (claiming disadvantage) contests his Primitive Weaponry (Sword) skill vs The Samurai's Primitive Weaponry (Japanese Weapons) skill and Fails!
The Samurai brings the katana down to parry the thrust of the gladius. However, it leaves him in an awkward position to resist the attack of the long sword. The force of the blow manages to jolt the keen blade from The Samurai's hands. As the weapon falls to the ground, he launches an elbow towards the chest of the Gladiator.
<CONTEST> The Samurai contests his Unarmed Combat (Aikijutsu) skill vs Golden's Dodge skill (given advantage) and Fails!
Golden twists to avoid the blow and observes, "So not the sword then, perhaps the armor, forgive me Takamura Hiroshi-san, this going to hurt me more than it will hurt you..." Keeping his blades carefully out of the way lest he hurt his executive officer with them, Dylan launches a fluid combination at his compatriot...
<CONTEST> Golden (claiming disadvantage) contests his Unarmed Combat (Kung Fu) skill vs The Samurai's Unarmed Combat (Aikijutsu) skill (given advantage) and Fails!
<CONTEST> Golden contests his Unarmed Combat (Kung Fu) skill vs The Samurai's Unarmed Combat (Aikijutsu) skill (given advantage) and Fails!
...And The Samurai disrupts the combination by successfully blocking the front kick to his face, knocking the foot off to the side. As he does this, his foot sweeps out to take the Son of Gold off of his other foot.
<CONTEST> The Samurai contests his Unarmed Combat (Aikijutsu) skill vs Golden's Dodge skill (given advantage) and Fails!
...Dylan hops over the foot, launching a jumping snap kick toward the Samurai's helmeted head again making utility of the evasion of the attempted leg sweep...
<CONTEST> Golden (claiming advantage) contests his Unarmed Combat (Kung Fu) skill vs The Samurai's Unarmed Combat (Aikijutsu) skill and Succeeds!
...This time the kick connects, spinning The Samurai's head and sending him backwards onto the arena floor. Rubbing his jaw, Fazhool's servant shakes his head and attempts to kip up into a ready stance...
<CONTEST> The Samurai (claiming advantage) contests his Athletics skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!
...as The Samurai springs back to his feet, as his weight settles to the squat stance the kip-up engenders, Dylan aims a Kick toward his jaw torqueing his body to finish the attack with a spin kick into his teammate...
<CONTEST> Golden contests his Unarmed Combat (Kung Fu) skill vs The Samurai's Dodge skill (given advantage) and Succeeds!
<CONTEST> Golden contests his Unarmed Combat (Kung Fu) skill vs The Samurai's Dodge skill (given advantage) and Succeeds!
...The first kick raises The Samurai up into the air as he was regaining his full height. Then just as suddenly, the second one connects to spin him off onto the ground again. When he thuds to the ground, his helmet slides off knocked loose by all the kicks. Groaning, The Samurai clamors to secure the helmet to his head.
"And there goes the helmet... LIEUTENANT! YOU WILL STAND DOWN *NOW*!" Golden orders in a whip cracking tone of voice. He moves with hurried if fluid steps to prevent the Samurai from restoring the helmet to it's place when the floor of the arena before him drops suddenly sending him out of view and into the darkness of the underpits as the lift drop a story into the creature pens.
The crowd, which had been roaring and gesticulating wildly drops into a confused lull, then almost in unison, heads turn toward Overlord Fazhool's box. Clearly, the suspicion is he arranged this to save his pet Terran. The reaction is respectfully unfavorable -- they turn back to the arena before booing and jeering.
The floor begins to rise again, sans any sign of the Son of Gold and Overlord Fazhool grabs Minister Viernal roughly, "I want who is responsible for this *dead*. And that damnable monkey too! Get your huntress and my Samurai in the annex building immediately and you better have a report for me or so help me your head will roll!
The Samurai rises, stoic, helmet back in place and moves with deliberate steps to reclaim his weapon... the mask conceals the struggle beneath the surface from all who watch, vague hints of almost memories swimming just out of reach of recollection. The loud, turbulant reaction in the stands of the Sanguine Theater continues even as Minister Viermal scurries out of Overlord Fazhool's box...
-----To Be Continued in part II-----
