Deamonbane Member
STATUS: When you see a sock on the doorknob, the only civilized way to react is to kick the door down, declaring loudly that," Player Three has entered the game!" 9 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 8 yrs ago
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 874 (0.22 / day)
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- Deamonbane 11 yrs ago
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9 yrs ago
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When you see a sock on the doorknob, the only civilized way to react is to kick the door down, declaring loudly that," Player Three has entered the game!"
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Most Recent Posts
Double post...
Things did change. I acquired a machete...
How's it going?
How's it going?
Huh... sporks...
*pulls out a machete and hacks at Kru*
*pulls out a machete and hacks at Kru*
Canada doesn't want him back...
Also, sup mortals...
Also, sup mortals...
Waddayaknow? The wolf prophesied....
Also, what up, humanz?
Also, what up, humanz?
Right jab, left jab, duck, knee, elbow, throw...
Left uppercut, duck, spin, high kick...
Clinch, right knee to the body, left knee to the face, right hook, knockout.
Sweat dripping slowly from his lean, powerful body, he performed several variations of the same, ending in the same thunderous right hand that the hammered into the training mitts that the trainer had in his hands. Twice the blow had been so powerful it knocked the man to the ground. Some people speculated that he could cause some serious damage to the trainer's head if one of those blows missed and hit him where it was supposed to hit his opponents. But none of them did. Sure, the trainer would have to put his hand in a bucket of ice once he was replaced by the BJJ instructor, but the strikes would land where they were meant to. He never missed.
He watched the discussion that various MMA experts had partaken of, discussing the various merits of a fighter of his caliber, along with his chances of beating Jones, the former champion of the category. Jones was still the favorite, of course, as he had lost the title over a divided decision that many people still thought was a bought fight, and in the three fights since he had taken some very serious opponents and won thunderous victories. He was, pound for pound, one of the top three MMA fighters in the world, and knew it. The man was confident, not arrogant. Alex had seen his fights. He could deliver some pain, and, from the looks of it, in the fight that he lost the belt, he had something wrong with his wrist, as his right hands were not coming in as hard as they tended to. A worthy opponent.
But he wouldn't forget why he was here. Ever. He wasn't here to fight, not in the ring, anyways. It wasn't why he had been allowed to take in a deep breath of freedom. His money was going to his sister and the aunt that was raising her, and the Bosses in Moscow said that if he tried to run away like his brother, both would be killed in as gruesome a manner as possible. He couldn't let that happen to Oksana. Their brother had left without thought of the consequences of his actions, and he had ended up in jail for the better part of a decade. He would be damned if he would bring the same fate down on what was left of his family.
Jab, uppercut to the body, clinch, knee to the abdomen, right hook to the jaw.
He pulled back, jumping lightly from one foot to the other, loosening his midsection, scratching at his goatee, jabbing a couple times in the air. The specialist was right. His striking was a little slow compared to Jones, but the man was easily irritated, and when he got irritated, he started throwing punches and kicks with little thought towards accuracy, trying to overwhelm his opponents in the flurry. One right clip to his temple or ear would knock that steam right out of him. After that, it would be simple to arrange a knockout, technical or otherwise.
He just needed to get the man irritated.
Not very easy with a professional, but when the blood was hot halfway through the round, quick, meaningless jabs past his guard would do it.
He couldn't concentrate on his brother right now. If he lost this fight, he would fade into obscurity, and still have to fight his contract through. He needed to win this.
"Take a break champ," His head coach said after the half hour of combination training," Get some water, sit down and loose those muscles for fifteen minutes, then we work on your ground technique," He clapped Alex on the shoulder and moved over to talk to the trainer, who was removing the gloves and rubbing his swollen hands gingerly. Alex gave neither a second glace, moving over to the chair in the corner of the room, drinking some water and sitting down, stretching his legs and arms a bit. He had never had trainers of this quality when he was pro, never mind when he was behind bars. The guy called him a champ, even though he was at least two fights away from actually being champion. It must be some American way of encouraging him.
He shrugged.
"Mr. Gavrilov?"
He turned to see a tall man in a grey suit stepping closer to him. He was lean, his cheeks gaunt, indicating that he was fighting off some disease or another. His pale blonde hair was cut and made up in a stylish fashion, in what the man thought made him look more hip, but in Alex's eyes, made him look like a womanizing fop.
"That is my name. Last name, anyways," He had learned English in prison, but his grasp of the language was still basic at best, his accent still heavy.
"I am aware, Mind if I sit?"
"Yes."
The man paused, wondering if Alex meant that he did mind or if he said that yes, he could sit. He decided to remain standing," I am Malanek Tropovski, and I am an attorney-at-law. You know what that means?"
"I know."
"I represent, among others, a certain organization that I am sure you are aware of, as you have done dealings with them in the past, during your incarceration. Need I say more?"
"No."
The obvious hostility in the fighter's eyes and voice along with the short, monosyllabic answers had the lawyer breaking a sweat," I'm going to be your lawyer here in the US, and I will be your representative, as well as your financial advisor. In short, I'm gonna be the guy that makes sure the money gets to your sister safe, sound and tax free, capisce?"
"What?"
"Do you understand? I will also be reporting your movements to the people that can and will make your sister's life very miserable should you step out of line. Have I made myself clear?"
Alex scowled at the man's tone, pushing himself to his feet, all but growling at the man that stood two feet shorter than him," I understand. Or as you say, capisce. But you understand other thing: If anything happens to my sister, if she gets hit by bus, if she gets sick and dies, our deal here is over, and you, little man, will be the first man to die for your master's mistakes," He patted the trembling man on the cheek with his colossal hands," Capisce?" He smiled and moved back to his training ring.
Left uppercut, duck, spin, high kick...
Clinch, right knee to the body, left knee to the face, right hook, knockout.
Sweat dripping slowly from his lean, powerful body, he performed several variations of the same, ending in the same thunderous right hand that the hammered into the training mitts that the trainer had in his hands. Twice the blow had been so powerful it knocked the man to the ground. Some people speculated that he could cause some serious damage to the trainer's head if one of those blows missed and hit him where it was supposed to hit his opponents. But none of them did. Sure, the trainer would have to put his hand in a bucket of ice once he was replaced by the BJJ instructor, but the strikes would land where they were meant to. He never missed.
He watched the discussion that various MMA experts had partaken of, discussing the various merits of a fighter of his caliber, along with his chances of beating Jones, the former champion of the category. Jones was still the favorite, of course, as he had lost the title over a divided decision that many people still thought was a bought fight, and in the three fights since he had taken some very serious opponents and won thunderous victories. He was, pound for pound, one of the top three MMA fighters in the world, and knew it. The man was confident, not arrogant. Alex had seen his fights. He could deliver some pain, and, from the looks of it, in the fight that he lost the belt, he had something wrong with his wrist, as his right hands were not coming in as hard as they tended to. A worthy opponent.
But he wouldn't forget why he was here. Ever. He wasn't here to fight, not in the ring, anyways. It wasn't why he had been allowed to take in a deep breath of freedom. His money was going to his sister and the aunt that was raising her, and the Bosses in Moscow said that if he tried to run away like his brother, both would be killed in as gruesome a manner as possible. He couldn't let that happen to Oksana. Their brother had left without thought of the consequences of his actions, and he had ended up in jail for the better part of a decade. He would be damned if he would bring the same fate down on what was left of his family.
Jab, uppercut to the body, clinch, knee to the abdomen, right hook to the jaw.
He pulled back, jumping lightly from one foot to the other, loosening his midsection, scratching at his goatee, jabbing a couple times in the air. The specialist was right. His striking was a little slow compared to Jones, but the man was easily irritated, and when he got irritated, he started throwing punches and kicks with little thought towards accuracy, trying to overwhelm his opponents in the flurry. One right clip to his temple or ear would knock that steam right out of him. After that, it would be simple to arrange a knockout, technical or otherwise.
He just needed to get the man irritated.
Not very easy with a professional, but when the blood was hot halfway through the round, quick, meaningless jabs past his guard would do it.
He couldn't concentrate on his brother right now. If he lost this fight, he would fade into obscurity, and still have to fight his contract through. He needed to win this.
"Take a break champ," His head coach said after the half hour of combination training," Get some water, sit down and loose those muscles for fifteen minutes, then we work on your ground technique," He clapped Alex on the shoulder and moved over to talk to the trainer, who was removing the gloves and rubbing his swollen hands gingerly. Alex gave neither a second glace, moving over to the chair in the corner of the room, drinking some water and sitting down, stretching his legs and arms a bit. He had never had trainers of this quality when he was pro, never mind when he was behind bars. The guy called him a champ, even though he was at least two fights away from actually being champion. It must be some American way of encouraging him.
He shrugged.
"Mr. Gavrilov?"
He turned to see a tall man in a grey suit stepping closer to him. He was lean, his cheeks gaunt, indicating that he was fighting off some disease or another. His pale blonde hair was cut and made up in a stylish fashion, in what the man thought made him look more hip, but in Alex's eyes, made him look like a womanizing fop.
"That is my name. Last name, anyways," He had learned English in prison, but his grasp of the language was still basic at best, his accent still heavy.
"I am aware, Mind if I sit?"
"Yes."
The man paused, wondering if Alex meant that he did mind or if he said that yes, he could sit. He decided to remain standing," I am Malanek Tropovski, and I am an attorney-at-law. You know what that means?"
"I know."
"I represent, among others, a certain organization that I am sure you are aware of, as you have done dealings with them in the past, during your incarceration. Need I say more?"
"No."
The obvious hostility in the fighter's eyes and voice along with the short, monosyllabic answers had the lawyer breaking a sweat," I'm going to be your lawyer here in the US, and I will be your representative, as well as your financial advisor. In short, I'm gonna be the guy that makes sure the money gets to your sister safe, sound and tax free, capisce?"
"What?"
"Do you understand? I will also be reporting your movements to the people that can and will make your sister's life very miserable should you step out of line. Have I made myself clear?"
Alex scowled at the man's tone, pushing himself to his feet, all but growling at the man that stood two feet shorter than him," I understand. Or as you say, capisce. But you understand other thing: If anything happens to my sister, if she gets hit by bus, if she gets sick and dies, our deal here is over, and you, little man, will be the first man to die for your master's mistakes," He patted the trembling man on the cheek with his colossal hands," Capisce?" He smiled and moved back to his training ring.
Palamon, you are free to post... I don't think it would be much godmodding...
I am waiting on Kate and Icos to... pound out their collab before I post again...
I am waiting on Kate and Icos to... pound out their collab before I post again...
The Witcher 3 should be coming out in April, if you are into the games...
Huh... posted, and it doesn't show...
Jonathan - Hunter
"I'm not a good man, old man," He said with a smirk," And no matter how fast you think you are, I am faster. I'm faster than you were when you were young, old man, and far more deadly. But the use of words to describe combat are cheap. I wouldn't carry you if your brittle bones broke. I would put you out of your misery like an old horse with a broken leg, without a second's hesitation.As for the Shade's abominations, I know you speak truth on that count, granddaddy. I'm one of them," His grin was there again, and he licked his teeth. The old man had never encountered one like him. Like the troop of men that had come to find him in his commune with his mother, coming out of that forest with more than half of their troop dead, the rest severely wounded. But the man moved away, senile old thing that he was. Probably not understanding what he meant. Nobody would believe that he was the Shade's Spawn once, brought back to the world of mortals but for the unwanted kindness of an old and powerful monk. His destiny stolen in an effort to save his fading life.
The thought put him in a darker mood than usual, more violent and deadlier than usual as he placed his cup on the table, his eyes darkening. He wasn't hungry anymore. Not for food anyways. Grimbold had warned him of it. He was always an arrogant and irritating pompous ass to everyone for a reason. If he didn't get out the constant anger that moved through him, the darkness that had been forever chained inside him, it would break loose. He enjoyed it, like a touch of that old darkness that he had reveled in as a youth, but Grimbold told him that the Good Book demanded that his dark ways of the past were in the past. His dark gifts were to be used for the fighting of evil now, or not at all. He wasn't supposed to be this close to the edge now, but that old man, in his arrogant speaking of the killing of his brothers and sisters, even if the lesser ones, drew on that darkness and brought it dangerously to the edge.
He lowered his mask again, his every movement slow and steady, ignoring the fact that many other were moving into the hall. They were moving around him, some not even noting how close they were to him and bumping his shoulder. His hand flickered out and grabbed one of them by the arm, his terrifying eyes gripping the man's soul in a cold grip, his fingers a mere press from sending three blessed blades into his chest, wreaking life-threatening damage inside.
But he needed to control himself. Grimbold wouldn't allow a massacre inside a palace, especially if there were other hunters there. They combated the darkness, like he did, in their own, futile ways, and he needed to respect that. Shaking, he released the man, who stumbled back and ran away from him. He needed to calm down. Shuddering softly, he brought some form of control over himself. It wouldn't last long, but Grimbold would want him to be a part of the ceremonies, even if he didn't eat. He moved along with the crowd into the feasting hall, slinking into a shadow-filled corner, avoiding the firelight.
"I'm not a good man, old man," He said with a smirk," And no matter how fast you think you are, I am faster. I'm faster than you were when you were young, old man, and far more deadly. But the use of words to describe combat are cheap. I wouldn't carry you if your brittle bones broke. I would put you out of your misery like an old horse with a broken leg, without a second's hesitation.As for the Shade's abominations, I know you speak truth on that count, granddaddy. I'm one of them," His grin was there again, and he licked his teeth. The old man had never encountered one like him. Like the troop of men that had come to find him in his commune with his mother, coming out of that forest with more than half of their troop dead, the rest severely wounded. But the man moved away, senile old thing that he was. Probably not understanding what he meant. Nobody would believe that he was the Shade's Spawn once, brought back to the world of mortals but for the unwanted kindness of an old and powerful monk. His destiny stolen in an effort to save his fading life.
The thought put him in a darker mood than usual, more violent and deadlier than usual as he placed his cup on the table, his eyes darkening. He wasn't hungry anymore. Not for food anyways. Grimbold had warned him of it. He was always an arrogant and irritating pompous ass to everyone for a reason. If he didn't get out the constant anger that moved through him, the darkness that had been forever chained inside him, it would break loose. He enjoyed it, like a touch of that old darkness that he had reveled in as a youth, but Grimbold told him that the Good Book demanded that his dark ways of the past were in the past. His dark gifts were to be used for the fighting of evil now, or not at all. He wasn't supposed to be this close to the edge now, but that old man, in his arrogant speaking of the killing of his brothers and sisters, even if the lesser ones, drew on that darkness and brought it dangerously to the edge.
He lowered his mask again, his every movement slow and steady, ignoring the fact that many other were moving into the hall. They were moving around him, some not even noting how close they were to him and bumping his shoulder. His hand flickered out and grabbed one of them by the arm, his terrifying eyes gripping the man's soul in a cold grip, his fingers a mere press from sending three blessed blades into his chest, wreaking life-threatening damage inside.
But he needed to control himself. Grimbold wouldn't allow a massacre inside a palace, especially if there were other hunters there. They combated the darkness, like he did, in their own, futile ways, and he needed to respect that. Shaking, he released the man, who stumbled back and ran away from him. He needed to calm down. Shuddering softly, he brought some form of control over himself. It wouldn't last long, but Grimbold would want him to be a part of the ceremonies, even if he didn't eat. He moved along with the crowd into the feasting hall, slinking into a shadow-filled corner, avoiding the firelight.
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