In the middle of the hall stood Meats, solemn and quiet. His mind was relaxed, body - showing no signs of strain. Hands wrapped around the handle of Iginbo, the point of his sword sightly sunk into the wooden floor. The demon watched, his menacing prescence spreading over the whole battlefield, seeking his opponents, eager to slay.

Unmoving as a statue, but filled with a vicous flame, determined to overcome and win, serenity merely a mask hiding his dreadful nature, he prepared to employ his favorite tactic: immediate assault. Unleashing a barrage of strikes within the first seconds of the fight, Meats would gain an advantage over his opponent, or even finish with a glorious blitzkrieg - the latter being rare though. Exploiting his tirelesness, which allowed for what would instentaniously exhaust a normal human to be unleashed over and over, he took his enemy by suprise, forcing them to slip out an ace from their sleeve early in the fight, or reveal their full defensive capability, helping him find a way around it. That is why he waited stoic and calm: to decive his enemy and hide the true nature of his style.

To ambush without hiding.

A man stepped out from behind one of the pillars, a severed head in his left hand, an unstrapped red-sheathed sword in his right. A thick trail of blood lead to a dark corridor behind him. This prison was a maze. A literal one. Built to keep the worst scum any dimension had to offer at bay. Thousands upon thousands of miles of corridors, rooms, and the occasional meeting point hall. This was such a point, with eight doors leading out of it prisoners were bound to run into each other if they stuck around long enough. Food and water was awarded by an A.I upon ending the life of another prisoner. There were no guards here, and only one exit. the U.D (United Dimensions) had designed the place well, and only the most hardened and persistent of people managed to claw themselves out of this hell hole.

Mordem dropped the head, and nudged it forward with it foot. It rolled twice before stopping, it's owner's awkward expression persisting throughout. Blood seeped onto the wooden floor, glistening in the light.

"I've already eaten today." - Mordem said.

There was a man-thing standing in the middle of the hall, but he was not the only one. Mordem had been through many of these rooms, he knew their smell, their feel, their sound. This one was damp, foul, and so silent that he could hear clear breathing coming from the pillars opposite his. He unsheathed his sword, wielding the blade in his right hand, and holding the empty sheath in his left. His shoulders raised, his feet moved apart, and knees bent. He lowered his head with a smile. His hands were held down towards the side, the bloody tip of his sword caressing the floor. His eyes scanned the room.

"Marco.."

"Polo."

David Smith stepped into the room with the air of a man that felt no fear. A man that knew both himself, and the world around him. Knew how to harness and manipulate them both to his best advantage, and never had a single doubt as to the outcome. He wore a dark grey business suit tailored for a man of his height and slender build, and a four-button vest to match, with a blood red tie contrasting both the dark suit and the white silk shirt he wore beneath. The only part of his wardrobe that spoiled the billionaire businessman look was his shoes. Designed to both be comfortable and maintain excellent grip on most surfaces, they resembled a cross between climbing and running shoes, light and agile. How he came to be here, dressed like that and with no visible weapons, was anyone's guess.

There were three things that stood out to him as he entered the dojo-looking arena, and the first was too obvious for anyone to miss. He was not alone. There was one man standing smack dab in the center of the room, and another had revealed himself by speaking the first line of the ever-popular children's game. He was off to David's right. There were others, his instincts told him, but as yet they had deemed it necessary to remain hidden.

The second thing was the realization that his first opponent, the one in the center of the room, was not alive. Not in the typical sense at least. The knowledge came to him at the first look he had of the man, but it took him a few moments more to reason out why he knew it. It was the breathing, or rather the lack of it. He stood stock still, immobile as a statue, without his chest rising so much as a millimeter. No living being could manage that, apart from an insect, and the being before him was not an insect. At least... he hoped it wasn't an insect. He really didn't feel like pulling an Agent K.

The third thing was even more subtle than the second, and it was the fact that he'd been here before. He'd been to dozens of rooms almost exactly like this, but until now he'd never encountered the same room twice. A small smile curved his lips as he slid a finger across a small knot in one of the posts.

He was beginning to glimpse the beginnings of a pattern.

Now he just had to get through these goons and figure out the rest of it. Which was probably easier said than done. The one to his right had come in carrying a head, and Smith recognized it from an encounter not more than two hours before. The man had been skilled, at least enough to manage an escape from a mob of three just before they ran into the slender man in the business suit. That particular meal had been very filling... But getting back to the point, the man to his left was obviously no slouch in combat. Even so, he ignored him for the time being and walked directly up to the statue in the center of the room, stopping just far enough away that if it were to hold out its sword directly at him, the tip would just barely press against his tie. He wasn't a fool, after all.

Then he just stood and stared back at the thing, wondering what it was that made it tick.

Sword resting calmly over one shoulder Zarkith stood proudly at the far end of the long hall. Standing seven feet from the wall to his back, this position Zarkith had chosen so he could not be easily flanked, but far enough away as to avoid being cornered. The dim light of the window some six feet above his head cast a long shadow across the floor before him. He watched thoughtfully but silently as other entered the room, the seasoned mercenary taking their measure and the room itself with a warriors eye. Zarkith noted he was easily one of the larger specimens in the room; broad wide set shoulders and puffed out chest that hinted at stamina and power.

He wore a simple dark grey leather vest over a cotton spun tunic of light beige, a leather belt around his waist. The neckline, sleeves and bottom of the garment were trimmed with contrasting black. His arms and shoulder completely concealed in heavy mail, made up of a vambrace and pauldrons. The right shoulder of which sported the crest of his House, A horned ended blade with a snake coiled around it. Zarkith had wondered a long time- how long he could not tell- wondering these halls, at last he had found his assigned targets. The set up was simple really- No one was to escape. It had not been a job he could have turned down either, as they had given him no choice in the matter. So here he was with the first of his opponents arriving. Of them the one wearing a suit caught his attention the most, mostly because he happened to be nearest. Not to mention the only one seemingly unarmed.

But Zarkith knew all too well how appearances could be deceiving. The man was rather tall, as tall as Zarkith in fact, and his instincts told him he was no less formidable then the others in this room. Still he was currently unarmed and staring intently at the stock still statue of a man in the center of the room. Well he said man, but Zarkith had the distinct feeling that one was also far more then he seemed, he carried the stink of magic about him that one. His in activity brought to mind the flesh golems Zarkith had often fought on battlefield occasionally. Or even the formidable warforge construct soldiers.

Perhaps the one in the suit thought that one the most threatening of those assembled thus far. Perhaps he was right. Zarkith parted his feet and lead with his right foot as he brought his sword down into a guard position. His right hand just under the swords guard, his left foot behind his right foot and standing on the ball of his left foot, knees bent, with hands near the chest with the elbows closed creating a basic guard with his sword point leading perpendicular point slightly toward the ceiling. He might move now if not for the other opponents about, and Zarkith was rue to make the first move and leave himself open. For now he trained his senses on his surroundings and waited.

Bah Rhon stepped into the room and looked around his setting, four foes were already in the area. Every one of them was taller than he, unfortunate. They had the high ground right now, but that wouldn't maintain as an issue. Bolting to the right he grabbed ahold of one of the pillars supporting the roof and leaped off, grabbing ahold of one of the footholds over the battleground and pulling himself up. Placing both feet on the small block of wood he overlooked the four other combatants that had already entered. Yeah, these were well trained and some might even be inhuman. Bah Rhon might even need to maintain a distance from these foes to prevent them from taking him out quickly.

Their weapons were all quite foreign to him, none of them were of natural or western designs. These weapons were likely magical in nature, if the weilders themselves weren't. A nightmarish thought that. If he were caught fighting a group of mystics and had no bow, then he'd be very well and truly damned. Withdrawing his blade from its sheath and leaning forward, readying himself to drop down on whichever foe he deemed most dangerous.

Le'Vash enters that meeting room with a hand on her hips and her nose scrunched in disgust. "Of course," she started then finishing with "...humans." with all the venom she could muster and purposely loud enough for them to hear even from the far side of the room. The door she entered from gave way to a large room with four other beings. She stood at the back of the statuesque one in the middle of the room who's pure malice that may have been masked from others was surely not hidden from her. The thing was itching to shed blood and so was she, but it amused her that one of the lowly creatures beat her to it.

A human head was on the ground with an absurd expression on its face that could only be caused by extreme pain. Not that it bothered her in the slightest. The world should rejoice with one less human to taint it. The man he slew one of his own kind was a vicious looking mortal and bloodlust in his eyes. The one next to him was a human in a tailored suit which must conceal something of lethal origins as he would not have made it this far without. And then there was the hulking male of a human that stood to her direct to her left. He was a prime specimen if she ever saw one, though that would not dampen the joy of slicing him and his kind piece by piece.

She slips her black short spear from its sheath at her side and gives it a few one handed twirls that make the air sing with its sharpness. She rest the weapon on her right shoulder and making sure she was no closer or further away from anyone else. She carefully watches every ones movements while at the same time releasing her murderous desires that nearly matches the still creature in the middle. With a dark look of death in her eyes she quips, "Whats a girl got to do to get some fun around here?"

Five.

One clearly violent, with an expression of maniacal joy on his face and clothes caked in blood.

Another calm and collected, despite wandering into a room crammed with killers unarmed.

The third was a seasoned warrior, clad in armor, readily taking a battle stance.

Fourth was a small and nimble one, trying to stay of of their reach and take a high ground. A wise decision, perhaps.

And last, but not least, an elven woman, arrogant and annoying.

Five, all of them his prey.

But now, averting his gaze from the rest, he concentrated on the one interesting him most. The man in a suit. Unlike the rest, his apperance easily garnered suspicion: clothes too clean and neat, completely out of place, hands bearing no weapon ready to be stained in blood, yet gaze determined and posture confident. Was he a mage?

Either way, he was at least no fool, standing a sword's length away from Meats, as if mocking the demon. Just a single step backwards, and the man would be out of the reach of even a leap slash, rendering the "immediate assault" tactic void - but Meats knew how to play the battle out in his favor. Yet another dose of deception, this time he would conceal his true speed: stepping forwrds, left foot leading, he slung the sword in a downwards strike at a mere 80 MPH - not even half of his full potential. Of course, that could be impressive for just a human, to wield a longsword in such a manner, but it was childs play for the construct warrior. Hoping that the man-with-some-secrets would choose to sidestep, Meats arched his body forwards to gain some some extra length for the killzone: Iginbo's tip was now a good 7 feet ahead of it's initial position.

Upon finishing the strike, he would calmly lift the sword, and observe the other combatants' reactions: dismissing their existance and hoping that they were busy with each other would be a dire and foolish mistake that Meats was not to make.

"Heads up!" Mordem shouted through the room, and lobbed the head towards the metal statue or whatever the fuck it was with the side of his right foot just as it started bringing it down upon fancy mcsmancypants, aiming it square at it's exposed head at decent enough of a velocity to crack the projectile's skull.

A bunch of losers were standing around the room now. Each and every one of them weak and pitiful. No one was as great as he. No one was number one-..Ey!

..There she was. A babe of fantastic proportions! Oh what a body! And a face, she also had a face. Mordem hadn't seen many women in the maze so far, and those he had didn't really look that good. Odd thing that, most top-grade-criminals looked like crap. Not like Mordem, he looked great. The greatest, really. No one could possibly look greatest..er... than he. Except the elven woman in front of him, of course, but she was a woman. If he was a woman, he was sure he'd look better. He would also have boobs, so there's that. What would it be like to--Eugh!..Back to the point!

..There she was.. Mordem fixed his eyes upon hers, he smiled and winked. "Hey.. Come here often?"

Ah. There they were. A hulking brute with a massive sword, a child-sized guy with a sword that probably seemed massive to him, and a... whoa. Was that an elf? And a FEMALE!? How the heck did a girl elf get in here? She was easily the first female he'd seen since getting dropped here, and also the first elf he'd ever laid eyes on, outside of videogames and movies at least. And dayum was she hot. She wore some light yet practical armor, the practical part of which seemed odd to him, yet it did little to hide the wonders of her figure. Fiery red hair and a face that would fit on an angel, a bosom that would be the envy of any supermodel, a lithe and supple figure that was only accentuated by the swell of her hips and my god! Those legs! What a pair of legs she had. He'd never seen such long, slender legs before, yet taught with the strength of well-trained muscles. She was quite simply the most angelic being he'd ever beheld. Well... Apart from the general feel of vicious hatred she was exuding, but he was willing to look past that.

Then she went and had to stand on the directly wrong side of the statue thing, and David harrumphed his annoyance and stepped to his left to get a better view. The sword swipe he'd been too busy to notice slammed into the floor next to his left foot at the same instant and startled him out of his admirations. He instinctively jumped back a step and a half, just about running into one of the support posts on his left. "What the hell man! Can't you see I wasn't ready!?" Thank god for good luck.

Zarkith watched the five members within the room with a careful eye. His attention lingering for a moment on the man who shot up one pillar to gain a bird’s eye view of the battlefield. At first Zarkith feared he might possess some kind of missile weapon to fire at the other combatants, but from a glance he seemed to possess none. Neither did he seem to pull one free for quick use. The man, who looked almost more like a boy really, was easily the smallest one here. Which from the looks of things made him one of the faster more agile ones. He had to have something up his sleeve to have survived this long.

He kept the little man at the corner of his vision just as he noticed the last to enter. Zarkith eyes narrowed at the sight in surprise. Not just because she was a women, but because she was an elf. A people whose pride outclassed even the proud warriors of Clan Zack. His thoughts on the little man being the fastest were also quickly stamped down cold. He had fought enough of those of elven blood to know they made up for precision and speed what they lacked in physical might. This one like all her keen was also stunning in ways no normal woman had any right to be, and while she was a bit pale for Zarkith's taste, he had to admit she did have a certain air about her. Her ass was not too bad from his angle either.

He quickly buried such distracting thoughts with the trained mind of a soldier and saw the stock still figure in the middle of the room take a swap at the man in the well noble cloths. Just moments before the man with the head sent it flying away. He also noticed he had quickly taken interest in the elven women, his eyes fixing on her delicate but powerfully muscled form. The black haired man smiled as he began to address the women directly. Zarkith noted the location of the little man on his high perch. A high ground he would have a difficult time capitalizing on without a longer ranged weapon, jumping from on high was his only mode of attack. That or throw his weapon away.

Nullifying his advantage was simple, Zarkith quickly ducked to his left past the wooden pillars placing himself on the same side as the little man and thus beyond both his reach and his sight all together. Doing this even as he shifted forward toward the dark haired man attempting to strike up a conversation with the elf. He swept in using the wall on his left to cover that flank. Even as the low roof hid him from the man above. He was a couple feet away from the dark haired on, roughly sixteen feet. Sword leaning down across his chest tip pointing to the ground as he ran his long legs covered the distance in five great strides. Just as the dark haired man finished his inquiry to the elf female Zarkith stopped short, just 6 feet away from the man's right flank, some 6 feet to Mordem's 4 o'clock to be precise. He swept Splitter slightly bringing the tip back to his right side, similar to golf swing, though not nearly as far lest he be struck for leaving himself open. As he cut, he aligned the long edge to face forward and began to cut upwards from the guard he had let the sword rest when in his run, passing forward so that he struck at the same time his leading foot landed, extending his arms outwards to reach the opponent from a safe distance.

The cut was aimed for the hamstring in the hopes of at least putting one man out of the fight, then using the momentum to relax into a quick Ox guard naturally. The sword hilt held to the side and slightly above Zarkith's head, on the side of his back foot. Effectively pointing the blade straight at his target in order to keep him at sword distance. Zarkith doubted it would be that easy however, but at least if nothing else he would get the man's attention and use him as a kind of shield from the elf warrior armed with the spear. The pillars would help funnel them he knew, but he also knew they marked the border of his strokes for the time being.

Taking note of a little distraction that he had noticed, an elven bitch had meandered into the chamber. Every single one of these warriors had become distracted, for some only a moment, others, it was rather noticeable. How pitiful is it to become so infatuated with one they have just met, didn't even have meat on her bones. A thin bitch, and little more in Bah Rhon's eyes. Taking time to look around and spy on the competition, he noticed the sound of heavy footsteps approaching his position. Incredibly heavy footsteps. Wonderful, we're starting already. No introductions. Every one of them was going to be the sort of pigheaded morons who blindly charge into battle against foes they have only just met.

Without thinking about his reaction he leapt from the banister and didn't even bother to mind the paper walls, tearing through the wall with even his light weight. Rolling to a stop he stood back up and brushed himself off, he had accidentally knicked his armor in the roll. Darn, he was hoping to come out of this without a single knick to his armor. He turned back around and stepped inside again, putting his feet on the bannister parallel to the one he had started on.

The boy smiled down at the musclebound men below, and the elf bitch. "You're going to have to try harder than that, all of you. The name's Bah Rhon the Swift. Decendant of Bah Rhon the Hero and inheritor of his speed. Now, who are you folks?"

Filthy pigs... Le'Vash mutters to herself. She missed not a single moment of most of the men here ogling her with their primitive eyes. As if they have never seen a greater, sentient, master race before. Though the exception was the made man thing in that sought only bloodshed and the smaller man-boy in his childlike armor. Already someone was nearly split in two because their eyes where averted towards something they had no right to behold. Just like their kind to reach far beyond their grasp. The man dodged by a hair and put on the act that he wasn't ready and that luck had saved him. Her eyes where not deceived. No fool would have survived a second of this place let alone that first strike. She was sure to watch him closely as was her intention to watch them all as they squabbled and played at war like children away from their mothers guidance.

The one who kicked the severed head went from bloodthirsty to stupid as his field of view laid upon her. Then, he had the audacity to throw a equally pathetic pick-up line that had her questioning how their species even survived as song as they have already. As she was about to respond to the question a loud boisterous voice started yelling some self conceited bullshit. "You're going to have to try harder than that, all of you. The name's Bah Rh-" was all he got out before she had enough. "Shut the fuck up you lesser being before I do it for you!" She rubs her temple with her left hand to fight off a coming migraine while pointing the spear at the shouting man up on the wall "Go make your self scarce. Now." She wouldn't engage unless she was forced and she spread her focus among all the contestants though slightly more on the annoying one.

(EDIT: Fixed for Leeroy's post.)

Meats wasn't even given the chance to finish the strike, the blade stopping inches from the floor, as he were distracted by a yell, followed up by a bloodied chunk lobbed straight at his face. In a fit of momentary rage, the poor lad's remnants were headbutted into pieces, leaving a heavy, red filled dent on the warrior's thin steel mask. Fortunately, there were nothing else to his cranium but muscle, iron and steel, such a sheningan resulting in no real harm.

While venting his frustration at the unwelcomed interference, he couldn't help but notice that the fool, his fancily dressed victim, played it as he never saw the strike coming, pretending to gawk at something just in front of himself - without any doubt, it was the elven woman, judging by the revoltingly lewd expression the man conjured - and attempting mock Meats, sidestepped in the last moment, Iginbo missing just by a hair. It seemed that after all, he indeed were educated in magic, recognizing a foe in the immobile statue of a man - otherwise, such a feat would prove to be impossible.

Unfortunately, for the show-off twat, he had been successful in pissing of the demon, a foe who always took pleasure in slaying; though Meats still kept his fury at bay, letting small parts of it seep through to form a slightly diffrent feeling. It were nothing like the true fever of bloodlust, but the prickly, thorned seething crawling through his body, tugging at the muscle, had its own flavor - none less enjoyable. Instead of letting anger overflow, engulfing a warrior in its storming flame, this emotion harvested it, feeding him with keen and cunning killing intent. Meats' grasp tightened, his leather gloves creaking with strain; having no mouth, he never could spice things up with a brutal laugh, instilling sweet fear in the prey - but it were only better that way: spending no time on small talk or battle cries, he drew first blood fast.

A petty 8 feet was all that clown managed to put between himself and Meats. Pushing sideways with his left leg, the demon easily covered half of that distance in a dash, landing some 4 feet in front of its target, right foot leading, knees bent. Wasting no effort to lift the sword high, Meats now had it close to the ground and held behind, as if being dragged: a perfect position to strike. This time, he bellowed out a clockwise horizontal slash, lifting Iginbo up to waist level as it gained speed. The whole of his torso put into the motion, it could be mighty enough to cut both the man and the wooden column in half, had he let himself run wild - but Meats was holding back, this time reaching only 120 MPH. Upon finishing, he would take a defensive stance, Iginbo lining up from waist to shoulder, hilt at his right, and the tip's flat resting on his left hand, which now was free and cleched into a fist.

The gorgeous elf woman didn´t give Mordem much of a reply. In fact, she just sort of walked off towards the opposite side of the room. He just let her pass, his ears told him there was a more prominent warrior that required his immediate attention. Heavy thuds, footsteps, had announced his approach while Mordem was making conversation. He continued talking, but had turned his head to gaze upon the aggressor. A big man. Bigger than Mordem. Muscular fellow, big ass sword, testosterone overload. Awyeah.

His assailant stopped just short of him, bringing that huge sword upwards towards him. Would surely leave a mark, if not for the oh-so-high-and-mighty, the best there ever was pulling his arm back and bringing his awesome katana down horizontally two feet above the ground as his body shifted around, his upper body turning towards Zarkith, right shoulder shooting back. He let go of the sword, leaving it floating in place between himself and the path of the oncoming blade. A loud metallic clash emitted throughout the room, as Zarkith´s sword clashed with an immovable object, halting it´s momentum entirely and forcing Zarkith to pull it back if he wanted to move it up at all, as well as likely sending quite a painful backlash through his arms. At the same time the swords connected, Mordem´s left arm followed the rest of his body and swung the sheath horizontally downwards towards the right at Zarkith´s exposed leading leg. More specifically, the side of his knee. Aiming to break it, preventing the giant´s future mobility. Simultaneously, his right foot leaned back on it´s heel as he shifted around, his left foot came in under the stationary katana to push Zarkith´s sword edge to the right (Mordem´s right) - Making sure to hit the flat side of the blade in the wake of it´s impact.

During the entire move, Mordem just continued talking. "Woah! Wait for your turn. Can´t you see I´m talking to a lady here? Hey! Babe! What´s your number?"

Perfect. Absolutely, astoundingly, perfect. That was the only word David could think of to describe the series of events leading up to this particular moment, from the time he walked into the room to the time he was now faced with a fifteen pound blade about to arc in at his right side. Just perfectly perfect. He even smiled a bit as he halted his backward momentum and began to push forward again, but not so far forward as to run headlong into his opponent. No, it was only forward enough to give his next move a bit more oomph.

With the sword being the size that it was, and the man carrying it being the size that he was, his options for attack at this particular junction in time were somewhat limited. It was far too long to bring up in a vertical strike that would try to cut David in half from bottom to top, and in entirely the wrong position to try it from top to bottom. Wrong side of the body for a right to left horizontal slash too, even if the post hadn't been in the way. That left a horizontal left to right slash that would carry the hefty blade straight into the hefty post. Assuming it didn't hit David first. Which would be a good assumption to be making, in all actuality.

Adding a significant amount of upward momentum to his small-ish amount of forward momentum, David jumped clear of the ground and pulled both knees up to his chest as the blade swished by through the air beneath him, only just missing the tail of his jacket. It was from this airborne parody of the fetal position that David launched his first attack, now a mere three feet from his opponent, as both legs pistoned forward to drive his feet toward the man-thing's chest. The force they carried would be well more than enough to cave in the ribcage of a human, though David's goal was far more simple. Send the brute sprawling weaponless onto his back on the floor. If physics held true, the large sword would now be buried in the thick post beside him, far too deeply to pull free easily even for one as strong as the statue thing was, and no amount of tightened grip would be able to maintain a hold on its handle. Unless of course the thing wanted two dislocated shoulders and a caved in chest. Leather and cotton padding could only do so much.

Zarkith continued to lean into his strike even has his opponent reacted in the oddest fashion he had ever seen. The dark haired human dropped low then released his sword. Zarkith had just enough time to register that move just moments before his sword clashed with the now seemingly immobile katana. The great sword rose up, hit the midsection of the weapon...and sent it flying away with only the oddest and slightest hints of resistance. Unknown at that moment to Zarkith, Mordem had immobilized his magic sword, however, unknown to Mordem, Zarkith sword's own magic activated upon contact, dismissing the enchantment that allowed the katana to defy physics. Thus without that makeshift barrier nothing was preventing Zarkith's great sword from sailing upward and severing Mordem's left foot at the ankle, a slight turn of the blade was all that was needed to adjust to Mordem's new position with him facing Zarkith now. As Mordem had no idea about Zarkith's swords magic, this turn of events was likely to completely catch him off guard, cutting his word short.

Assuming the cut landed and left the dark haired man hopping on one good leg, Zarkith would have continued into his ox guard, leaving him in the prefect position to stab forward or defend against another aggressor. Zarkith had fought in enough battles to know that it was often truer than not that the warrior you didn't see was the one that often killed you, and not the one you faced off against. His opponent was also unlikely to reach him with his strike first, as Zarkith had superior reach and was already in mid swing.

Cutting his word short indeed.And his foot, body and face. The upwards strike tore through Mordem, killing him before he even realized the oncoming sword went past his own.

Bah grumbled when she interupted him. "Elf bitch, at least human men look like men." To be honest, Bah's a little racist. The sound of metal on metal rang through the air and a blade came just outside of his reach, the sword used by one of the men down below. "What?" With one small leap to the other side of the room he snatched the blade out of the air and waved it a bit. "What happened?" Regaining his overlooking position on the banister by turning on his heels, he began to wonder why this blade came to him. In his curiosity, the small man looked down below to witness the last few moments of Mordem's life pass from him, blood sprayed from him and splattered to the floor.

Inside of his head he was a bit worried, the large man had already claimed the life of another? Heavens no, this was not good in the slightest. We've only just got here, and no introductions have been done besides his own. Bah sure hoped that wasn't his host, he was hoping for some sort of reward after all of this.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Literally. Bah had grabbed Mordem's sword from the air and waved it a bit. Little heavy around the middle, and there was a tiny chink where it had been struck by them massive hulk of a man's blade. "My, what a fine sword. You down there, big fellow. You don't mind if I keep this sword do you? I mean, it won't matter in the long run, I'm going to kill you and take your sword as well."

Tapping his chin he went to drop the sword to the brute below, muttering a little singsongily. "You can take it, I don't need it." Instead of it dropping how he had intended, it just sort of hovered there in the air. Suspended by some unseen force. "Oh my. You know what? I'm going to keep this."

For some godforsaken reason, unknown even to his own self, Meats couldn't comprehend the blatantly obvious dodge in time, his sword smashing into the post. It would be fairly easy to yank it out for a being with such a mighty body as his, but the opponent didn't give him the chance, aiming a dropkick towards the demon's chest. He had already lost the opportunity to to dodge the moment he sunk Iginbo into the wood; negating the damage done was next on the list. Fortunately, he were no human, and his body had this one spot perfectly fit to dampen the blunt fore of this kick. Having no need for any organs, he instead had his belly filled with pure muscle, such great cross-sectional density playing a major role in a strike's power. This time, however, he would flex them not only to attack, but to protect himself. Splinters of bone were a problem even to him when stuck in the flesh, so instead, Meats jumped into the air, hands slipping of the sword's handle, torso unwinding, and threw a hook towards the assailant's knee, while taking his boots to the abdomen. There was little to no risk of him ending up with a broken spine, a large amount of energy dissipated by the muscle, and part expended on throwing him backwards. Sure, the distance would still increase, but at least he would land on his feet instead, ready to close it immediately.

Vanarus Sallein, the ancient known for his unquenchable blood-thirst, made a characteristically brutal and messy entrance. Appearing from nothing, the magic of his cloaking spell fading suddenly, he rammed his clawed hand directly into the Elf-maiden's neck before she could react. She fell with a gurgling sigh, her death was quick and clean, Vanarus had matters to attend to that prevented him from indulging quite yet.

The Vampire lord tasted the blood on his claws, delicious. However his next thoughts were distaste and irritation, the light baring down on him was distressing at best, downright unhealthy at worst. Feeling weaker than normal, a feeling the vampire was particularly unhappy with, he drew himself to full height and observed the chaos in the room. He had appeared from apparent nothingness to those around him at the far end of the room from the conflict, and immediately he knew that some form of melee was afoot. It was paramount that he seek out and slay a foe quickly, but his love of duelling would not allow him to simply assassinate an engaged foe.

Swirling his dark cape back from his nobleman’s attire he drew the rapier, The Chalice, with one fluid motion. Waving it in his right hand, he swept his long black hair away with his free hand and surveyed the scene more precisely, deciding on his opponent to be. If one looked particularly closely at the vampire they would probably notice that he was squinting ever-so-slightly, despite the fact that the light in the room was not particularly bright or blinding… at least to a human.

His eyes settled on a large opponent, being pestered by some agile opponent up above. Vanarus could cut him down with sword or claw, but the bigger man seemed like he would be more of a challenge, and the vampire was eager to bleed him dry.

“Large fellow, prepare yourself if you would, I’d quite like to cut you to, bloody, ribbons.” Vanarus called with a cruel smile, striding across the floor to meet him, keeping his eyes on the other conflicts around him with a casual ease. He eyed up his foe’s gargantuan weapon with an experienced eye. At roughly eight feet, with enough open space around him to suit his particular style of fighting, he entered the generic fencing stance of the Spanish duelists, his sword arm fully extended, his body turned appropriately but strangely loose in regards to foot work, it would be clear to any expert that Vanarus was anything but traditional.