Lith

Motorcycle Jousting Tournament.

Motorcycle jousting sounds cool. I think I'd be a skeleton on a motorcycle myself. A skeleton but with organs so that way I can still get stabbed in my vitals, because then me winning looks more ridiculous.

I'll keep an eye on this. I have some sick tunes you guys can use.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgi5Qc13QiQ

Hi I'm iris

Welcome individual. Hope you find good RP tidings here.

Come into my Parlor… 💀

Childish mental giggling.

That was what Shazar manifested when he heard the hurried movements of his adversary deeper into the passage.

Sure he could tell the drow wasn't snared; after all, no screaming. No bones getting crushed to bits. No cries for mercy. It'd been nice iffin it got her, for the rogue would've had quite a show! But based on all the bones round these parts, he wasn't exactly expecting a quick kill. 'N sure enough.. not a sob. However, this was just a prelude to the real show.

The witch done smoked the place up for a reason. Odds are she either could see into it or cast more profane spells upon it and so see within it all the same. Safety within it was a foolish notion. And as shambling bones were shouted at by the very not-tentacle-crushed angered dark elf, that about cinched the deal. Creepy sorts would be on him in short order to flush him out or gut him on the spot.

Aw'rite. Ditching concentrating on the tentacles, it was time to get showy. Sure he was a dexterous man but dodging the dead's diseased limbs clutching onto rusted up shit weapons wasn't befitting his self-perception of glory. The blood within, the dragon blood within, boiled for conquest. So within his proximity of the fog, the smoke darkened a hint more.. and then erupted.

Lord of the Sky, ironically named given its application here. Typically an evocation spell used by Bahamut initiate orders to quell wyverns, our friend flew off the ground horizontally and with a surprising mixture of speed & maneuverability -- a dark coating on his eyes betrayed by shiny white teeth flashing a harsh grin as his backside flirted with the rock pattern overhead. There wasn't too much height to this neck of the cave but enough to get out of a few arms' reach for a moment. There wasn't a real way for him to exit the fog at this time, nor was there a need to. If it came to mobility.. the humanoid missile was glad to demonstrate it in circling spades upon his would-be brethren once very permanently removed.

Feet softly clicking together, Shazar was borderline like the drawn depiction of a pixie floating in the air -- were it not for him egging on skeletal warriors to attack him while licking his lips for what was to come.

---

"Gonna have to rid myself of these pests, ain't I. Not very coo'.." Mused the rogue internally.

Still. Ah to be a Sky Lord. In his head, he looked like this:

The Image Within

Sure minus the modernity, the well kept hair, the toned body, the literal wings, the implication of open skies versus him being in a suffocating cave full of corner to corner fog, th- listen, the point was he was able to fly and that was great.

Come into my Parlor… 💀

Maybe most humans had those what do you call it, qualms about talking down to supposed threads or what have you but Shazar wasn't about that life. He was about getting rewards. Anyone who said the meek shall inherit the earth ain't all that bright in his book.

"I see. So ya ain't gonna play this smart. Shame. You got some nice skin." A taunting whistle shrilly popped from his lips as the cave passage filled with indiscernibly thick smog, his left arm raising up and cuffing his mouth in instinctive defense.

Frankly, the odds of a drow of any sort let alone a spellcasting variety falling on their knees could only be described as a far shot. But hey. The effort was made. The rogue could no longer feel like he had a "missed opportunity." What could he do about it? He wasn't sulky at all that his chance to brag to the Den boys about being a drow lord was dashed to pieces; no not at all. It didn't have his molars grinding together with frustration. His smug internal perception of himself wasn't being threatened, no~

But something about it all did make him mad.

Aw'right then.

Right hand nimbly reaching into his spell component pouch, the beansprout man grasped something meaty. To expunge any notions of impropriety, it was some kind of appendage from a beast cut up and coated in a gel of some type to keep the hydration going. A.. tentacle.

SLGHG

Speaking candidly, he couldn't see a god damned thing. However, he heard the wench, saw shadows, and had a rough idea what direction relative to himself she'd been at. That was more than enough for his favorite spell. Black Tentacles.

Grab Grasp Clench

Boy was he glad at applying himself enough to learn this one. Massive sprawling "arms" with crushing strength that would pour out of the ground or even water if it were present, and grasp at every entity in their area; which, wasn't all that bad at a twenty foot radius from their origin point. And rather proud of himself at this fact, the human could keep these babies going for a while~ He figured it was a good way to more intimately introduce himself even as he dropped to the ground in a stomach-down prone position.

After all it'd been coo' if she were wrapped up all tight like, boy would he love watching that. But just as coo' if she were on the run now. He did'n need to see to hear hurried steps in this hole after all.

Come into my Parlor… 💀

Theft.
Fencing.
Repeat.

A simple process but one that Shazar took a real shine to in his shameless lifestyle. His studious nature in the arcane arts saw some Sword Coast elites eying him for other pursuits in his student days, but the thrill of getting increasingly exotic artifacts and then placing them in the wrong hands for the right coin far outweighed some stuffy office or minor wizarding position with a more proper sort of company.

Eventually though, hitting the same locations exits recklessness and becomes taunting fate itself to punish you. A lesson the messy ash haired rogue learned the hard way when at last he was incarcerated for a near full year. The embarrassment after bragging to the underground about his infinite potential & skill was blistering. The humiliation of being lumped in with the common was a despair with no respite.

Yet learn from this lesson he most certainly did: vary your haunts. Mix in some exotic locales! Hit locations where the law is more flimsily designed and enforced at its best. Ruins were fantastic, as usually they served double as graves for some minor nobility and would seldom be guarded well enough to matter. This also allowed some ethical flexibility and ambiguity when returning the goods to a larger city! This was all to say, the cave was not his first.. second... or frankly thirty-third choice this month. What prompted him to choose it for spelunking was a mixture of it growing late, him wanting a place to retire for the night while using a particular spell of his to soar the winds like rapids with blatant disregard for his surroundings like a jackass, and his penchant for personal risk.

Oh but that lovely moan~ Before the cave had his attention (with the subconscious acknowledgement he may need to do some extermination work to get it homely); now, it had piqued his curiosity. And not many places remained unmolested once that height was achieved.

---

So then we return to the cave's seeming owner acknowledging our "hero." A drow woman scantily garbed and clearly not kind if she had any niceties to her judging by the implications of her words. Fantastic. A witch's lair perhaps! If he could avoid the whole being murdered part, odds are there'd be no legal ramifications at all to looting the place blind. The outside clearing made marking the location simple enough so a few trips and all these poor saps who were clearly his lessers would have their belongings returned... in a fashion, to the rightful overworld economy.

Tucking aside his altruistic notions of noble trade, the torchlight also revealed the thief's tall but lanky stature. Olive green pants and tan brown open coat, the man's patchwork attire was covered in belts and straps stressed with use. Light dusting of facial hair aside, one could be forgiven for thinking him of a commoner's station weren't it for his easily distinguished skin which was not only quite fair but looked unworked in any capacity by labor. Flashing a pearly smile that reeked of cheese, his voice was equal parts chipper, facetious, and full of forced "patience" as though he were speaking to a child:

"Ah yes yes. The name's Shazar. I'll be the new management around here." His hands seemed to have a life of their own, ringing each other in a meticulously practiced pattern of neuroticism.

"Y'can depart on your own or spread your legs and make yourself useful. Makes me no difference. But I'm an appraiser, you see. And I.." Forking his tongue against his right cheek, his head tilted towards one of the many bones that would never see daylight again by the corner. "..have my fair share of work cut out for me here on that front. So all this "your home, your door" talk is frankly just inaccurate. Referencing statuses of a time bygone. This is Shazar's Retreat now. We clear?"

Black leather boots clung to the floor keeping the stick of a man aloft from blowing away along with the occasional gust within these depths -- yet the rogue seemed to be familiar with this comical form of "pressing." He had just entered a potentially deranged drow's lair and told them they were evicted unless they acted as his servant. Even he knew this probably wouldn't go over well in terms of the negotiation process. But nothing ventured nothing gained! And if it did get her going on the rampage, well. All the better to ascertain if she was alone or not and rip that problem right out.

'Course if he did get her as a servant, he'd be all the envy of the boys. A drow servant. Coo'!

Come into my Parlor… 💀

I reserve.. my right to fight. Here I go.

Definition Of Slaughter.

An ant was surprisingly almost apropos to describe what emerged from its flesh coffin.

More apt however was a different shade of insect. A once larvae that had at long last blossomed from its cocoon. What little satiated it had been within the cocoon was blown away by its new caloric requirement, flapping its wings and scanning for prey. The rest and relaxation of the "womb" it had rebirthed from torn away in an instant, instilling a deep seated resentment that could not be so easily quelled.

An aura of heroism? No! Once being so many minds amidst many victims he had patchwork strewn together in an amalgamation of still living corpses, if there was one truth "Mulch" had learned, it's that every figure he had devoured was a sinner. Supposed godslayers and their ilk, the virtuous and the righteous, all carefully cultivated images broken down into their crude realities once within the assimilation process. If anything they were villains, pretending at individuality while playing at what role their impulses assigned and destroying with concrete cruelty.

Mulch was no villain much like Yang Tian was no hero. Such roles did not exist here. Though neither knew the other's name, nonverbal communication amidst the void was what conveyed this best: they were vying lieges for a throne!

And as such the game was afoot.

First was to break the strengths of the "lad," and His magnificent dominion over this plane.

Translucency rippled through the orb amidst this spatial labyrinth. One could forgive thinking M.A. was itself producing "after images" in absurd number clustered the tiniest fractions of measurement away from its outer edge, creating an illusion of it having "bulbs." In reality, it was generating from its depths contrasting gravitational fields of varying "heaviness," spinning in contrasting directions across congruent dimensional spaces all at once.

Were the great void higher above to draw in heat and even the motion of molecules within its dying star's grasp itself, or were there ten trillion walls ahead of Axiom, were unknown yet mattered not in equal measure. He, it, would use this pulsing of states to displace its presence within the cosmos at a point closer to Yang than before. And again. Seemingly emerging amidst a stray asteroid, its hardy material seemed to phase out of existence in proximity before being abandoned.

In truth, it was never "moving" at all. Nor escaping the Solar Eclipse's gaze. Nor even moving, in the conventional sense, closer to its target.

The ghastly truth that allowed Mulch to sidestep the laws in place: rather than move in this space, it was effectively condensing the realm itself to remove effective distance between objects. If by metaphor the "confines" were 600 pixels by 600 pixels, it would behave as though now 550 by 550 while its subjects retained their relative size. Though of course this example betrays the enormity of scale the real article possesses.

Tian's "weapons," his body, and that energy he emitted were all mysteries. However. Mulch knew his core was not so fragile, and possessed its own manipulations of reality if he so chose to draw upon them as this was his primary form thereof. And that to bring discomfort to that arrogant visage, would require closing the distance however eternal it might masquerade itself as. If it was a confrontation of might, or a confrontation of guile - Axiom was equipped. Though paying it no mind as to name it for it was one with Mulch in a manner not unlike Yang's "Qi" no doubt, if one had to, the "technique" was named Duress.

PULSE
PULSE
PULSE

And so began its constraint onslaught.

---

@Chaotic Neutral

Definition Of Slaughter.

Hedonism.

What the supposed "noble" transformed humanoid failed to understand was the underlying motivation for all of this. To increase pleasure, to decrease pain. Enacting conflict to ultimately erase conflict. To be a glutton. Disgust at this was simply wrong! Were it one second or a trillion quadrillion septillion lifetimes crisscross strewn over dimensions absurdum, nothing with utmost certainty transcended The Hunger. Nothing!

And yet what was this strange creature that its attacks and movements were making the roots shake in anticipation of death? Then this was the Legion's binding impulse that united its ranks, more so than hunger: survival.If it was a matter of myriad thoughts in but a moment, rest assured, the Friar's tortured fellows thinking in tandem unified in perception unified in sensation mashed into a stew of consciousness operated in much the same capacity. And the realization Mulch needed came about entirely thanks to the *linear*, *condensed* outreaches of the mighty Yang.

It was too much redundancy. Repetition rather than amplification. Inefficiency. Even the biomass was size for reach, not for power. A true threat, the true might.. needed not this baggage. The smaller creature had the right idea. Compact. Compress.

Shyyykyykkk

---

The roadway of mirror images, heralding the mighty fist true, would see success as it struck the ocean of flesh. If a tree did have rings, then each layer annihilated would for the briefest of instants be a chorus of screaming human beings of varied origins, cries blended together into the eruption of great energy. And yet the "tree" had its final purpose before being discarded as a vessel carried out even amidst gushing seas of fractalkine fluid defying boundary. For something dreadful fired from its depths up its "canopy" at speeds that themselves broke typical visual constraints. A singular streak of color-- its avatar: a shining red orb five feet in diameter.



The nucleus. Evading its own would-be corpse, it propelled itself 90 degrees from its exit hole with velocity that made multiple large asteroids see a hole manifest on them sans visual indication of what object pierced them to any normal probing eye, prior to disintegrating in a ghastly red mist. This was quite different than the animalistic preservation tactic of the seafaring monster it had employed earlier, abandoning far more than just some auxiliary organs; it was more to say this was recognition the hunt could not be conducted at minimal energy and required truth.

Abandoning blood and even the veins that carried it, abandoning pleasure. Abandoning the many selves, conquests, and bodies. Abandoning pleasure. Abandoning the myriad minds and their prides.

Its sunken voids that made up "eyes" seemed to have gazed downward with preparation; its orb-like body in a state of layered plasma. To prepare, for the next set of movements, the next wave of energy, the next weapon, the next.

Mulch Axiom had emerged.

---

@Chaotic Neutral

Definition Of Slaughter.

Ah, a transformation. Or perhaps better still, unveiling a truer core of an impure shell.

Mulch could only internalize an eagerness in the face of this. A joy attosecond by the next. Again: boundaries and forms were concepts only. Matter touched and intersected one another on a constant basis Individual will was an illusion that served a greater whole, "fate" if one should be so coy as to deem it so. If there were greater heights to scale within this mighty warrior, ones that transcended the heavens and the stars higher into the zenith of all - that was the most desirable outcome imaginable!

For they would soon become one.

Fitting of a tree, this abomination rose amidst the miasma of this realm at a comfortable 43' in height from the bottom of its trunk's base point to its utmost branches - while the roots ebbed and flowed around 13' in all directions. As celestial stone saw itself annihilated by the bestial "knight's" destructive blast, one such root expanded rapidly. One could, for an instant, be forgiven if they thought it a forlorn hope in the form of an attempt at shielding from the mighty 'Qi.'

Instead, the true nature of this entity was revealed. It was not "flesh-like" bark.. it was flesh. Hunger and assimilation were but half the process. *Separation* was the other. For what was fired out near point blank was a screaming, crying friar.

---

A once great monk of fame and heroism, a mighty jolly warrior with great strength and long list of exploits now emergency jettisoned as a flesh bulb external organ. Grown like a grotesque phallus an instant before it was ripped apart atom by atom. Its convulsing body sweating a mixture of blood tears and mucus membrane shedding, it was a tortured suppressed existence suddenly ripped from the neo-womb to the surface and forced to endure the might of the wonderful blade's emission. Its life, if one could even call it that, was offered as sacrifice and accepted within but a moment's notice. And then the story of the friar was no more.

---

Its destruction heralded an internal detonation within the tree, blasting its main body aside to its left by a few dozen feet as several roots were disintegrated. Like a ballast organ within a sea organism pressuring it aside from the fangs of its prey. What was this unveiled nature? Legion. This realm. The "plant" was this space's avatar, its condensed form, its will! The carpet was unfurled to welcome its newest compatriot, Yang, to replace the fallen he would no doubt prune from its body in this conflict. Oh! The vibrations within its tendrils intensified and sped up. How wonderful to have His body soon!

More! More!

---

@Chaotic Neutral