[IC] Nexus of Worlds Tournament

[Skallagrim]

The dreamer stirred, in her fitful slumber a call rang out through the holons, a gathering of champions, a new reality, new sensations, and experiences. Releasing the grasp upon her champion, the Sleeping Queen allowed one to waken, to be summoned to this realm, to this holon of existence.

Through the dream-guarded gateways of slumber, the solitary figure known as Skallagrim the Cughtagh strode until with a deft touch the shadow mount emerged from the dreams, a skeletal charger with a whorl of amethyst illuminating its eye-sockets. Slowly the dream worlds, fell away as the patterns of reality emerged, a strong resonance thrumming through the various holons, calling forth the awakened dreamer, Skallagrim traversed the myriad of existences until finally an archway emerged. Slowing, and finally halting in front of the archway, Skallagrim dismounted and passed through the vast arch and emerged into the holon of the Nexus of Worlds.

Finding the great obsidian throne in the center of the Great Hall, Skallagrim sat upon it and whispered in a haunting voice, “Dreamer I am here at the Nexus of Worlds, I shall begin the games so that all Dreamers may see and observe.”

With that, Skallagrim reached out through the multiverse seeking fighters who showed promise and aptitude. Using the incredible powers of the Dreaming Queen, he emerged before each fighter, seated upon the Obsidian throne his voice a thunderous hiss that filled the skies around the participant;

“I am Skallagrim, and you have been extended an invitation to attend the Nexus of Worlds Tournament. When you are ready merely call my name and I shall open the gate to the Great Hall of Worlds.”

With that, the Cughtagh vanished in a shimmering of amethyst lights.

Those accepting the invitation and calling upon Skallagrim the Cughtagh a gate will appear that bridges the worlds of reality with those of the Dreamers. Once through the gate the contestant will find themselves in a great hall of shimmering lights. In the center of the hall upon a raised dais is the Obsidian Throne, from which all worlds can be seen. Atop it is Skallagrim the Cughatgh.

“Lo, there do I see my father.
Lo, there do I see my mother,
and my sisters, and my brothers.
Lo, there do I see the line of my people,
Back to the beginning!

Lo, they do call to me.
They bid me take my place among them,
In the halls of Valhalla!
Where the brave may live forever!”

He intones as the opening prayer of all warriors who step foot unto the Great Hall, then after a pause he continues,

“Grieve not, wise warrior. It is better
to avenge one's friend than mourn too much.
Each of us must one day reach the end
Of worldly life, let him who can win
glory before he dies: that lives on
after him, when he lifeless lies.”

Such were the words spoken by the skeletal being seated upon the throne, as he bids each warrior welcome to the Great Hall.

“Here in the endless void, amidst the eternal star shine of the omnniverse, the Dreamers craft lands of dream and fantasy in which blood is spilled, where the strongest survive and the defeated's names are lost to history.”

Skallagrim stands and extends a hand to all, his voice like thunder, “Welcome those who answered the call of the Nexus of Worlds. We, the Dreamers, welcome thee. Your presence will not go unrewarded. The winner of the tournament shall be given a great gift that shall be theirs until once again defeated here in battle at the Nexus of Worlds.”

Skallagrim extends a hand to the Great Hall around them. Within the hall stands the golden trees Glasir and Læraðr. The hall's ceiling is thatched with golden shields. Various creatures live in the Great Hall such as the stag Eikþyrnir and the goat Heiðrún, both are standing atop wide wooden steeps and consuming the foliage of the tree Læraðr. The land around Great Hall is lush, with thick green grasses and shrubs with fruit and nuts. Beyond that flash of green, the dreamed of summer lands, lies the battlefields connected to the Nexus of Worlds.

“'The Nexus of Worlds is a dream, in which just before daybreak, I thought I cleared The Great Hall, for the coming of slain men? I waked the Einherjar, bade valkyries rise up, to strew the bench, and scour the beakers, wine to carry, as for a king's coming, here to me. I expect heroes' coming from the worlds, certain great ones, so glad is my heart.” Skallagrim spoke in a haunting voice.

Turing the Dreamer pointed to the warriors gathered before him, “Here you shall stay until the end of the Tournament. Here you shall be reborn, all wounds healed and death denied. Within the Great Hall, eternal life resides while you fight for the title Champion of Worlds. There are rooms to reside that suit your needs.“

[MelonHead]

Blood splattered the rotted walls, mostly bright and vibrant red but with the unusual dots of green mixed within. The ruined mansion had hosted an epic battle, one which was reaching its dramatic conclusion as steel thudded against hard carapace and claws scored metal and flesh.

The Vampire had made a formidable enemy, the Archivist thought sardonically within his great mind, where most would be wholly concentrating on the fight. The spider-like being with the grotesque human upper-body relished the challenge as he caught a blade with his upper left forearm. Vanarus, his vampiric foe, cool and calculating despite his predicament, was still determined to end his alien foe, regardless of his nobleman’s attire torn to rags and the number of wounds which pulsated with poison across his undead body. He bounced back and lashed out with his rapier, the Chalice, hoping to take the creature across the body despite how it had turned back even the most powerful of his strikes throughout their duel.

The Akarid scholar allowed the blade to rend into his hard carapace, and then struck back with both of his right arms, sending Vanarus head-first through the worn wooden wall and leaving him dazed on the ground of what was once the master bedroom.

“Fitting I should die in my bedroom, it is after all how I hoped to finally end this existence.” Vanarus whispered, reaching for his blade with one clawed hand. The Archivist dropped two of his spidery legs down on his foe and allowed himself a moment of triumph.

“You made a formidable foe, of course, be honoured your data will be added to the Archive.” The spider like being known as the Archivist rasped. Poison began to pool from his sharp claws as he prepared to end the battle, his curiosity satisfied. However, before he could deliver the final blow a light appeared, and he received an offer he could not refuse.

‘“I am Skallagrim, and you have been extended an invitation to attend the Nexus of Worlds Tournament. When you are ready merely call my name and I shall open the gate to the Great Hall of Worlds.”’

The skeletal being rang with immense power as it appeared before him and delivered its invitation, and his data-pad nearly short-wired. The ancient prophecies of the Akarid had come true, he would be able to finally complete the near empty entry on the Dreamer race!

Without hesitation, he spoke the creature’s name, only at the last moment remembering Vanarus on the floor. He shrugged inwardly; there would be time to finish the vampire later if necessary, for now there were far more exciting prospects at hand. The Archivist stepped through the portal and entered the Hall of Worlds.

The Archivist initially declined the option of retiring to his room, ignoring everything but the very place he found himself within at first as his Data-pad scanned the strange environment around him. The Data was stored just as quickly as he could point the device at it, a clicking noise at the back of his throat the only visible sign of his excitement. Soon though, he would turn his attentions to those he had the pleasure of slaying in the ensuing conflict.

[ruronihs]

A ragged looking man stood before Tomaru, his trembling hands feebly grasping a dagger caked with dried blood. For every step the kitsune took forward, the man staggered one step back. There was no way that he could beat The Red Shinigami in combat; his only hope was escape. He tossed the dagger at Tomaru as a distraction and then reached into is pocket for a bomb. But... what happened to his hand... where the hell did his hand go!?

The dagger hadn't even slowed Tomaru's advance; he simply tilted his head to avoid the blade and the flicked his wrist to swing his sword. He cut off the man's hand so swiftly that his blood didn't even have a chance to stain the pristine katana. "You should have gone quietly," Tomaru said as the man began to realize that he was now short one hand. "You do realize that you didn't actually kill that girl, right?" The man looked at Tomaru with wide eyes, fear in its purest form dulling the pain of his wound. "That's right, your aim was so bad that you missed all of her vitals. You could have made amends. But after that little stunt..." The last thing that the man saw was the cold, empty gaze of The Red Shinigami.

With a sigh, Tomaru sheathed his still pristine blade and turned his back to the headless man behind him. He had never bothered to learn the man's name, and he was glad that he didn't; it would be a shame if a kindhearted person stirred up unpleasant images by coincidentally sharing that monster's name. He was best left forgotten in the woods, though now that the confrontation was over, Tomaru did wish the man the best possible outcome in the afterlife. Perhaps his blade had at least spared him hell. Tomaru considered walking back to the village, but decided to move on without a word. He knew that he would be hailed as a hero, but he hated being praised for taking yet another life. If he was stronger he could have stopped the man before the stabbing happened and ended the affair without bloodshed, but even he wasn't omniscient.

Then, as he began to wander off down a wooded path, a strange being beckoned to him. A man named Skallagrim was inviting him to a tournament. Despite an utter lack of knowledge about what he was about to get into, he did understand the word "tournament." And apparently it was an invitation only one at that. A grin spread across his face as he uttered the word "Skallagrim" and stepped forth into the Great Hall. The place was certainly extravagant, with the host even having a bit of poetic verse for him. His tail began to swish with excitement as he received the host's greeting. His language was flowery but the meaning was clear: here, death was of no consequence; The Red Shinigami could come out to play...

But before that perhaps he should introduce himself to the other guests. Like that big spider... thing. He looked... nice. On second thought, perhaps the other guests could introduce themselves to him.

[Skallagrim]

The skeletal being turned his attention to the Archivist, for moments nothing was said as the illumination of amethyst energies flared slightly, the creature was observed and recorded, placed in the dark archives, accessible by all Dreamers.

“Your people are not unlike the Dreamers, Akarid, you seek knowledge, understanding.”

Bowing his head slightly Skallagrim waved a hand and suddenly an image of a vast, endless dark populated by shimmering balls of light appeared. “What you do with machines we do with dreams, nightmares, memories. Everything that has been or will be and every possible permutation of existence have been observed in our endless slumber.”

“Drink deeply Archivist, use your machines to observe and understand what happens here. One day your race may become like ours.”

Then the image of the vast compilation of memories vanished as Skallagrim peered at the Kitsune, the grinning death’s head nodding approvingly “Welcome Tomaru…or would you prefer Red Shinigami?” hissed the Walker Between Worlds. “Your kind has always brought the Dreamers pleasure…your lust for life has been savored and dreamt upon for epochs. Welcome to the Great Hall.”

[LeeRoy]

Well, unlike the rest of these guys, Abe doesn't have much of an introduction sequence. Abe was kind of wandering in the desert before all this, uncomfortable with being around modern society. So when a voice called out to him in the middle of Nowheresville, Abe thought he was having another mental breakdown. It took him a moment to realize that the voice wasn't actually in his head; and when a doorway appeared it became quite evident that this was no ordinary hallucination. Plucking his partisan from between his shoulders as he took a few hesitant steps forward into the portal Abe aimed it at the wall. Haddad had come out facing away from Ol' Skally here.

And then?

Clarity.

Within the Nexus, as it was stated, all wounds are healed. Abe's brain disorder melted away faster than you can say sweet mama. Oh how spectacular! Wonderful, wonderful indeed! "Ah, it's nice and refreshing to have my brain back in one piece. Oh yeah, thanks for that'n chatty guy." The ghul placed his spear in the small loop of fabric on his back again and turned towards the group before him. "Ah jeez, why do I smell death on the air already? Did the others kill people before getting brought here? I feel like that's what happened. Did I miss a prerequisite gore-fest to this- Er, this is a tournament right? Yeah. Prerequisite to this tournament thing?" Though his brain was whole once more, Abe was never quite all there to begin with. And whoa, those are some big animals up there behind the talkative guy.

"Hey, yo. Whatever yer name is, Chatty-man. You talk way too much, you don't have to be super cryptic either. Just saying." Abe pushed his way forward through the group and stared up at Skallagrim, perking his left brow. "You mentioned something about heroes, right? Well, Chatty-man, you're sorely mistaken if you think that I'm anything of the sort. I was kind of a monster before I got here, and before I was a monster I was never totally right in the head. I mean, I indulged in cannibalism. And, if possible, still do whenever I get the chance." The ghul sniffed the air and tilted his head slightly towards Tomaru, a toothy grin forming across his cheeks. "But from what I'm smelling on that man, he's not much of a hero either. Is he?"

Abe coughed out a little puff of smoke and took a seat on the ground before Skallagrim. Abe knew his sanity wasn't going to last. Things like this never do. So, instead of standing around like a goon, he took a seat. These moments were sure to be scarce so Abraham took in every moment of it, savoring the wholeness within his head. "Thanks for this, Chatty-man. It's real boring out there in the desert, especially when you have to be out there alone."

[Descartes]

The year was 2014. It was a good year to be an American; as are all years.This year, however, seemed to be growing relatively grim. Despite being the greatest, most powerful nation on Earth, people were starving while others ate. Money flowed but it all left the country as did the work. But Americans need not share wealth- sharing is for commies. But America needed help, and none arrived. Not even from the president. They needed a stronger leader. They needed a true patriot. They needed a strong man. They needed Andrew Jackson, and that's when it happened. They gods of freedom and the spirit of the radio had sensed the country's dire need, and decided to fulfill it by resurrecting one of the country's greatest leaders: Andrew Jackson.

There was a single beam of light which shot straight towards the heavens. It was brilliant and blinding. Its point of origin? The Hermitage. Walking and breathing again, was the United State's seventh president. He brought his index finger to the surface of the coffin, thrusting his finger against the woodwork. The lid popped off, flying toward the wall. A family of tourists had been watching as the president rose from the coffin. Youth was restored to his face, and his eyes seemed to burn with vigor and the brilliant light of freedom.

A tour guide was the first to give her salute. She was soon followed by the rest of the tourists, who as free Americans, instinctively knew the face of one of the country's greatest leaders. Taking his first step on earth for over a century, Jackson saluted back. A soldier within the Hermitage bowed to the president. It was as if the country had prepared for a day for this savior's return. Jackson was presented an arsenal of America's greatest weapons. He picked the first one he saw, knowing automatically the greatness of American ingenuity and craftsmanship.

However, Jackson was unable to serve within his country for long. He felt a voice calling for him. A challenge; not only for him, but for all the American people. As a proud American, Jackson had to take of the challenge. Before leaving, the spirits of freedom, liberty, and justice presented him with a sword. The sword was known as the Liberty Brand. It was originally forged in Hiroshima by Nippon blacksmith during the Sengoku period, containing a power that could not be wielded. When the bomb was dropped on the city, the freedom contained within the bomb had become absorbed by the sword, morphing it.

Soon enough, Jackson was transported to the Great Hall. Before him were several men. Jackson did not bow- Bowing was for filthy Chinamen. "Hello" he said "are you American? Because I hope you're free tonight."

[Raptorman]

Thunder roared and bright lights flashed through the sky above Vol’Kariz as the ancient stronghold was gripped by another of the storms sent by gods too cowardly to risk a direct confrontation with the being that ruled from it. The ancient citadel reared high into the sky and despite its age the great construct still gleamed in every flash of light and resisted every storm that the gods cast against it for Mriswring defied the test of time as did all of the ancient creations that Maev’Sil’Vien had poured her essence into during her war with her siblings in the olden days when the world was still young. For thousands of years Vol’Kariz had been the seat of her power during the long wars between the gods who had shaped the world, but now the time of Maev’Sil’Vien was long since passed and a new master sat upon the throne of light and shadow, a new master commanded the armies of the Lorenvolk, a new master that the world outside his domain called the Tyrant of Vol’Kariz and that the Lorenvolk called the Liberator.

As thunder roared and lightning crashed over the citadel a being inside gave little thought to the raging storm. Instead these thoughts were some that raged at the being who ruled the citadel, for she had grown tired of the caution of her father, the hesitancy, the reluctance to seize the opportunity that the inactivity of the gods offered. He was a fool to waste the opportunity and allow the peace to last, so long as any of the lands still worshipped the traitors who had struck down Maev’Sil’Vien and shattered the peace of the world there could never be a true peace. And yet her father had refused to go to war, refused to take advantage of the squabbles among the kingdoms of men and the other lesser races.

Elisara of Vol’Kariz, only child of the great Tyrant or Liberator himself was frustrated and in her frustration she had secluded herself to her chambers. There she was free to vent her rage as she saw fit, and in her wrath and anger at the inactivity and sedentary nature that her father appeared to have adopted shadows and spears of blazing light flickered throughout the chambers. It was a calming exercise, to summon the powers she had inherited from her father and his mother before him in their non-destructive forms. The control required focus and distracted from the anger that bubbled away within her.

Elisara had just begun the exercise when the spears of light and clouds of shadow simply ceased their motion and the world around her froze. A skeletal being stood before her and at first the Tyrant’s daughter thought this was the Life Ender come for her and began to make herself ready to battle one of the gods who had turned upon her family. But the voice declared a different purpose and as she listened a smile appeared on her not quite beautiful face. This would be an opportunity to vent her frustration more fully and she had longed for a battle for so long that it mattered little to her where she found it. There was some hesitation though, for this being that had appeared before her appeared to possess great power and such was unsettling to her.

Her decision was a foregone conclusion however and she rose to her towering nearly 14 foot tall height and moved to the stand on which her armor and sword hung. She had no desire to cloak herself in Mriswring before it was necessary however and so with a hand gripping the stand she spoke the name given to her, “Skallagrim.” The words echoed briefly before the daughter of the Tyrant vanished into a portal, taking with her the armor and her weapon.

When she emerged into the great hall she was still clad in the formal attire of the court of Vol’Kariz. A crown adorned her head, from which two tall spines, one white and one black rose, and a pair of smaller spines also white and black rose as well. Her golden and white threaded hair hung down past her shoulders to spill over the pure crimson of her clothing as her golden eyes glanced around the room to survey those who she was apparently to face. Ultimately they returned to the being she had mistaken for the Life Ender initially as she awaited acknowledgement.

[Green]

"Asshole!" The Hellzooka shouted. "Motherfucker!" It roared across the battlefield. "aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!" A rocket flew into an already messed up grocery store, followed by another hitting the hair saloon next to it. A massive explosion emitted, and the charred remains of what used to be the innocent bystanders taking refuge on the sidelines of combat started plopping down from the sky like it was fucking fourth of July. Fuchsia was tripping through the street. "La di da di da" he hummed, one foot in front of the other, trippety truppety trappety trop. He jumped into a puddle of blood, both feet at the same time. Splosh. The velvet liquid of life ejaculated itself onto the surrounding walls. He dipped his finger in the puddle, and drew a smiley face on the wall.

"Let's get out of he-.." A multitude of footsteps. They were getting fainter. A group of soldiers retreating from the fray. "Gaaayyyyy!" The hellzooka burst out, a murder rocket planting itself firmly in the middle of the escaping group before suicide bombing itself to back to the burning pits of hell. Splat. Fuchsia got half a foot in his face, slobs of flesh and bone in his hair. It thumped to the ground. He started counting on his fingers as he knelt, intent on picking it up. "Six thousand, two hundred and eighty six." He mumbled to himself. Math wasn't his strong suit. He had just about started munching on the delicious little meal he had picked, when a voice started echoing through his head. "Skallagrim?" He questioned, and before he knew it, he was no longer in the village he had been defending against the enemy.

He looked around, his finger itching for the trigger of his Hellzooka, but his mind curious as to what he had bewildered himself into this time. He slurped loudly, as the last of the foot disappeared into his maw. He was now in some kind of castle, in which the most notable presence was a talking skeleton. Huh. Fancy garments.

[Skallagrim]

“Ahh…no Mr. President, I am not an American although I believe I dreamt I was one. It is hard to remember the lives I have lived through the epochs of time.” The Walker between Worlds said as he nodded to the new arrivals.

“I see more have answered the call, and to your point…” The grinning death’s head nodded towards the Ghul, “Heroes are defined by their society and their roles. You exist as a creature of incoherence and disjointed thought; those qualities have brought you here because some Dreamers wonder how such a being would do in a structured environment. You are an experiment.”

Looking them over the skeletal being allowed the glowing amethyst energies to wash over each of them, “You are considered some of the best and unique warriors through the omniverese and we are honored that you have come to challenge yourself and one another.”

“You shall be given your fighting berths soon; your opponents have been randomly chosen. I bid you all well in the games. Death is but a fleeting memory here, fight to your abilities, make your peoples proud.”

[MelonHead]

The Archivist almost lost his composure in his haste to record all he could of the great cavernous expanse displayed before him by the powerful creature known as Skallagrim. His mind could hardly comprehend its vastness, let alone the device at his wrist. However, before it was gone he judged that at least 0.5% of the information had been relayed to the Archive. Even such a small quantity of data dwarfed anything his predecessors had ever collected. He would go down in the history of the Archivists as the greatest, and no-one would ever forget his name.

With an inward sigh the arachnid turned nimbly and folded all four arms, turning to stare at his foes. They were varied in size and race, human was obvious though there were also two roughly human variations of vastly different proportions. What powers or natures existed behind the façade was hard to discern with a simple glance, however once his Data-pad had finished sending the huge quantity of material he had just observed… it would likely give him what he required.

There was also notably a fox-like creature in the gathering, and a decrepit looking spirit he summarised was a Djinn, or something very similar. He would have spent longer giving them a personal look, knowing that many would fall to someone else’s hands and their data would be lost forever, but he was cut short by their host.

Fighting berths chosen, tournament ready to begin, The Archivist’s mouth opened briefly to reveal razor sharp unnatural fangs. Excellent, it was time for him to go. He scuttled over to his berth and felt himself change, much like when he had entered the Great Hall, then he was no more in that place but in another, one of light and anticipation of bloodshed.

[LeeRoy]

That was certainly a way to describe Abe, 'an experiment,' though it did seem kind of dick-ish that they would just pick him out without real reason beyond a test. "So, I'm an experi. . ."

[Green]

"..Otty!" Fuchsia shouted. Again appearing in the great hall. He immediately sat down on the middle of the floor, arms crossed, lips pouting. His lust for battle had not been sated, and he strongly doubted attacking the skeletal figure that had summoned him to the realm would amount to more than a one-way ticket back to hell. "This sucks." He mumbled, kicking his hellzooka with his feet. A metallic thump emitting throughout the hall. Well. He'd have to wait for the rest of the participants to kill each-other and present themselves to him. Until then..

"Hey. Old Skully. Got a scrying pool I can watch the fights in by chance?" He asked, a slight chuckle escaping his lips. "Did you see how I defeated the snow, by the way? Total overkill, huh?" - No response. Huh. He could feel the dimensional energies grabbing ahold of him again. Where was he going this time?

[LeeRoy]

[I was incorrect in my assumption, and misread the rules. Upon a quick review of the rules, I realized I had assumed that 48 hours was the minimum for ejection from the tournament. Which in this case, was incorrect.]