MelonHead

The Old Rise Again (Scouti vs the Weeper)

Whatever magic the girl used was certainly coming in handy. The Weeper had committed to his thrust and his blade was likely to slash across her arm regardless of her efforts, testament to the last second nature of her escape. Better than being impaled, certainly. That same magic was apparently used to super-charge her projectiles, like the knife before, the steel pellets or whatever they were that she threw at him crashed into his left forearm and across his stomach. Luckily for him perhaps the objects seemed to lack mass, and at such proximity they had little time to accelerate, they weren’t like being shot point-blank with a shotgun at any rate. Two of the coins cut neatly through the ruffles on his sleeve and stabbed into his forearm, two more cut across the front of his shirt and left bloody cuts that quickly spilled out onto his shirt, dampening it with crimson lines. From the Weeper, no sound emerged. If he was perturbed that his thrust had earned itself only token damage and he himself had been harmed, it did not show.

Instead, he turned with remarkable agility in the direction the girl had launched herself in. She had her back to him now as she sent herself skyward and began plummeting back to the ground, he would exploit that ruthlessly. Perhaps she would begin to fear, his aura saturated the area with its insidious purpose, heightening the strain of battle that pushed down on her. The Weeper had a life to claim and he would claim it. The sound of his running footsteps were the only indicator that the reaper himself pursued her, his blade had a taste for her blood already, but it was yet to be satisfied.

The Old Rise Again (Scouti vs the Weeper)

I haven't ignored the weight increase thing btw, but I'm unsure if your character has time to concentrate on it, and even if she does it would have little immediate impact with him right upon her at the moment.

The Old Rise Again (Scouti vs the Weeper)

It was time for the harvest. The Weeper did relish it so when the unfortunates came to him.

Twenty feet separated the two as the masked swordsman had finished shooting and made his approach. Twenty feet was a pittance of distance to the Weeper, his stride was not so great, but he moved with an unnatural speed that belied that of a predatory cat. His measure was not so impressive with a short-sword in hand, but he would be upon her as she landed, darting leftward on his left foot with his left arm covering his body and face. He naturally stooped as he sent the Weeping blade plunging forward hungrily for her flesh just as her feet touched the ground. An ideal time to strike, in truth, for her options for evasion were terribly limited by her own airborne manoeuvre. She could even be carried into the point of his sword by her own momentum, which struck for her right shoulder.

He had expected some other form of long range assault from the girl, she had shown an aptitude for it already. However in truth had he not been upon her his options would have been limited for dealing with the coins. Fortunately, his blade would serve in that regard. She could not easily commit to throwing those objects at him if she wished to avoid feeling the blade of misery cut a neat path through her shoulder. If the point of his blade did not serve as sufficient obstacle to the launching of the coins, he would taste pain himself. Perhaps enough to stop him onslaught for the time being.

Drawn Innexorably Towards Confrontation

Fury’s eyes coldly regarded the displaced earth and the spot in which the ship evidently came to rest. Those same eyes rolled up to the current position of Dunnaman’s vessel, some distance away from that spot, having evidently been moved in some fashion. Judging by the creature’s condition, back-breaking labour no doubt. Now, it didn’t take a genius to spot a hole in the man’s façade.

“Oh, so you are resigned to your fate?” Fury asked rhetorically. “You have acted very strangely then, why bother moving your ship at all if you thought you were stranded on this planet?” The Fireen tired of games very quickly, and he was starting to feel like he was in one. To make matters worse, it was a game of words and wit, not one he was good at. Fury hated things he was bad at, and he hated games. What Fury hated he tended to destroy, it was his nature.

Suddenly, the Fireen’s unnatural eyes saw something else. It was brief, like a flash of light at night, so much so that he second guessed himself immediately. Had the creature just exuded energy for a short period? Had he some form of energy control not unlike that of Antireen control, Fury’s own ability? Fury was on edge, watching Dunnaman more closely now, still sure of himself but just that inkling bit more cautious. Would he be able to coax more displays from the man if things continued? Fury intended to find out.

The Old Rise Again (Scouti vs the Weeper)

With a flourish of characteristic drama, the Weeper ripped the cloak from his shoulders with his free left hand just in time to drape it before him. The motion was practiced and quick beyond belief, the surprisingly tough fabric forming a barrier for the knife that allowed him, not unlike a matador, to turn his body from the threat. If not for the strange acceleration of the object he would have likely relied upon the fabric alone, instead, his body turned anti-clockwise and the knife pierced fabric and clattered to the ground behind him, leaving him unscathed. The second would have been caught in the same act, but a quick glance had told him it was not on target, and he was eager to be on. So very eager.

“Halt your progress?” He asked, simultaneous to his cloak fluttering to the ground rather breezily. His masked face fixed her, watching her as his left hand was obscured by the cloak, his right pointed the sword towards her in a common act of stage-craft. Time passed in a bubble of sorts as the cloak fell and the Weeper moved, the speed of his actions beyond that of a human, but not beyond the super-human perception of the Allomancer. All the better, she would see what he was capable of. Then she would know to fear him all the more.

The velvet cloak draped to the ground, leaving the Weeper in his off-white ruffled shirt. More importantly however, it also revealed the click of the hammer dropping on his pistol, as he fired it from the hip. As luck would have it, the powder ignited first time, the sudden crack of the explosion startling, though the Weeper was unperturbed. He had shot the deadly metal ball across the front of his own body, showing remarkable courage considering the unreliability of such a weapon. The projectile flew true, hurtling through the air towards the Allomancer’s right hip.

“I suppose I mean to do just that.”

The weapon was back in its holster almost as quickly as it had appeared, and the Weeper was moving. Advancing on the girl, giving her small chance to recover from the sudden assault by projectile, his sword was hungry. Twenty feet stood between them, but for how long?

The Old Rise Again (Scouti vs the Weeper)

If not for the eccentricity of his appearance and the sinister aura he exuded, the man stood before Scouti could very well have been considered mundane. He was of no great height, under six foot, and his blade looked as if its edge was rusted and it was no fine work regardless. A tool of a forgotten Empire, one that knew the value of practical things, but one that lacked an eye for the aesthetic. Behind his mask, lank brown hair hung to shoulder height, brushed back behind the slightly shoddy velvet cloak. It was the mask really, only the mask. Porcelain white, except for the soft marks of red, but with the face of tragedy. The eyes upturned and the mouth likewise showing the image of one distraught. It was not overly detailed, the brow was ridged to accentuate the hopelessness of the expression, but other than that it was plain. The face behind it was shrouded in darkness though. Which was enough so that one may even begin to doubt if there was a man inside the mask.

However, his interesting new plaything had apparently already tested him. Tentatively, but with some form of power she sought to manipulate the Weeping blade, and found herself rebuked. The weapon was tied to his soul, it was not something easily taken from him. However, the attempt alone was enough to draw his ire, had he not already planned to extinguish her life that alone would have sealed her fate. She readied herself for a battle, wisely so, but her preparations did not escape the eyes of the Weeper. He simply did not fear them.

“I am afraid, my dear, that my business is with you.” He sounded genuinely remorseful as he went on, taking a single step towards her with each pause. “I am but a lowly servant you see.” Step. “Who finds himself the receptacle of so much misery.” Step. “Such that I simply cannot bear it.” Step. “And so I share it among others.” Step. “You look as if you could withstand the pain I offer.” Step. “Would you please take it from me?”

The Old Rise Again (Scouti vs the Weeper)

From what I remember it was a character trait of the Weeper to have quite long, drawn out introductions with depressing philosophical musings. It probably won't all be like that, but I thought I'd give it a try for the intro to get into character.

The Old Rise Again (Scouti vs the Weeper)

It always surprised him just how much blood there was. It transfixed him, holding his gaze selfishly when so much else desired his attention. The paleness of the skin, the hollow coldness in the eyes as one escapes their mortal coil. The last, dying, breath. He wished to give these things the attention they deserved. But blood was just so bright and vibrant and there was just so very much of it. When it came to cause and effect, there was nothing as satisfying as bloodletting, nothing so morbidly beautiful as watching crimson liquid pour from the wound one has inflicted on another. So the man thought, even as he wrenched his wretched blade free of flesh and turned before the corpse had time to slump to the ground. It was a theatrical gesture, but when one decides to go about his business dressed in what looked like the stage clothes of a nobleman, topped off with a red velvet cloak and a white operatic mask, it’s hardly surprising to find them succumbing to drama. The scene would have been perfect, except for one small niggling issue, the screams of the victim’s partner were of a horrible octave, and truly the woman had no gift for stagecraft. Did she not know how to mediate her voice so that she embodied the raw fear and passion of the scene without grating on ones nerves? No matter, he would work with what he was given.

“Do you know what it is that makes the sudden demise of you and your partner so sad?” He asked, his voice was hollow and raw, as if he had spent the day straining his vocal cords, perhaps with screams of his own. It was a bitter voice, but unmistakably that of a man. He of course was mostly wasting his time, as his audience of one and a bit were too far gone to really appreciate his words. Perhaps she screamed just an inkling higher, some small semblance of understanding passing through the slum-dweller, recognising the implicit threat in the man’s words. The bloodied swordsman, pistol at his hip and a melancholy mask on his face, looked down at her for a moment, his head turned at a slight angle as if waiting for her to figure out the answer to his question.

“It is not that you will be missed, my dear.” He almost choked up then, as the great realisation of one of life’s saddest realities broke down upon him. Not that this was the first time he had thought about it, but he was a sensitive soul. “It is that in a place such as this you will not be missed. No one will mourn your passing, you will be forgotten among so many… souls.” His blade thrust through her breast and her screaming turned to coughing, bloody gurgling, more of the liquid pooled down at the man’s feet, almost reaching the puddle of the woman’s partner. It stretched and stretched, but the two pools did not meet. One salty droplet of water ran down his neck. The man turned away.

“But do not fear, for I at least will weep for you.”

---------------------------

The Weeper had just left the great tower behind him with two extra corpses keeping it company when he spotted Scouti. There was something about her curiosity, her drive, and the sheer life within her, which called to him. Called to him to extinguish it. There was a hidden importance to the Weeper’s sadness in ending the lives of two shanty-dwellers, and that was that the life he had extinguished had inherently less happiness in it. Not so much that to take their lives was a kindness, for had it been then he would have gone to lengths to instead preserve the lives of the two. But enough so that if one regarded his murder as some sort of necessity, as if he fed off the misery he wrought, then they had hardly served as appetizers. What a depressing thought, for your death to be even be unsatisfying to the one who had taken it, even that final purpose ripped away so that even by dying you fail to save the life of another. What a meaningless death.

His sword was drawn and bloodied, the Roman Gladius known as the Weeping blade, twin specks of red marked the otherwise creamy white mask on his face. These two things alone would leave Scouti with little room for misinterpretation. This was a dangerous man waiting for her in front of the building she wished to enter. The man stood there, watching her silently, unmoving.

The Old Rise Again (Scouti vs the Weeper)

The Weeper

Identity

Name: Ariad (The Weeper)

Age: Unknown (Appears mid-40’s)

Height: 5ft 10”

Weight: 78kg

Physical Description: Ariad seems human at a glance, with short black hair and a black beard, both sprinkled with grey. His eyes are red-rimmed and somewhat sunken, but otherwise normal and brown in colouration. His other features aren’t in anyway strange or unusual, and his general appearance is one that most would consider unremarkable. However, none of this can usually be seen beneath his white face-mask. With a build edging between average and athletic, he fits in well in any human crowd.

Psychological Description: Ariad feels a bitter-sweet melancholy at all times, and strange things can cause him to be overcome with grief, shedding tears unusually, especially over the bodies of those he has harmed.

Tier: 3-4

Powers/Abilities/Skills: Ariad is only gifted with one major power, which unsurprisingly taps into the emotions of his opponent’s. Unlike what one may expect, they are not driven to depression or even sadness necessarily, but rather they feel a heightening of whatever emotional responses are most common for them (or whatever emotions can be tripped by events which unfold). This ability has only ever proven completely ineffective against foes which literally have no biological capacity to feel, primarily robots. Humans with psychological conditions have actually proven to be effected, often more strongly, due to an influx of chemical responses they’re wholly unused to forcing them to feel for often the first time.

However, even in circumstances where he is unable to gain a major advantage from the emotional unbalancing of an opponent, Ariad is still gifted with a number of combat related skills.

His strength is pushed beyond the peak of a human being, though far from immense he can lift about 800kg with effort, still allowing him to lift and throw the average human with just one hand.

His agility and speed are his biggest advantages, owing to his lithe build, he can run at 60mph and dodge the melee attacks of any human on the planet on reflex alone. Though he reacts at thrice the speed of any human, he is not fast enough to see and then dodge a bullet, but certainly an arrow or other slightly slower moving projectile.

His skill-set is one that allows him to carry out pretty close to any physical feet any human being can carry out, with the added benefits of his above human abilities. Expect any forms of acrobatics, and the ability to launch any melee attack he so chooses with his body in the most efficient and powerful way possible. This is not a complete knowledge of every human martial art, but the ability to perform movements he decides upon effectively, by using his superhuman attributes.

His durability has never been a strong point for Ariad, known to become badly wounded by even a few rounds of an ordinary pistol. He accommodates for this by trying not to get shot or hit by anything hard enough to outright kill him.

Ariad has been shown to heal incredibly quickly provided he can escape a fight without being killed outright. When fighting however his strange power has to concentrate on the unbalancing of other’s emotions, so he has no ability to heal in battle.

Ariad is not known to eat or drink, though he can still be effected by chemicals their effectiveness is fairly limited. He does still seem to be dependent upon air to breath however.

Equipment

The Weeping Blade (The Weeper)

A seemingly ordinary steel gladius (short-sword) of average length and diameter. Seems painted with red specks along both edges from the point till half-way to the hilt.

It’s physically incredibly difficult to break or dull, and can be repaired by Ariad in some fashion he is unwilling to disclose. Unlike an ordinary steel sword its edge is sharp enough to sheer through steel plate and flesh with only the force of an ordinary man behind it. Ariad can –easily- cut through a brick without damaging the blade, making it a formidable and deadly weapon even to armoured opponents. Other than its sharpness and durability it has no other combat-applicable powers.

The Weeper, or The Weeping Blade, has a long and terrible history. Legend says it was once an ordinary sword, before it was plunged into the breast of a noblewoman either by her own hand or by her most loyal servant, none are sure. Most agree that the blade was cursed by a wrathful god, whose play-thing escaped his torment with its strike, ensuring that it would bring sadness to so many as to satisfy his hunger. That has yet to be done.

Flintlock pistol, four extra shots worth of additional mats.

Ordinary clothing/apparel.

A white face mask, seemingly made in operatic style (think phantom of the opera) made to display sadness.

History: Ariad, or the Weeper as he is known, is presumed to belong to a long line of cursed souls forced to wield the ancient blade of sorrow. Shedding the lives of innocents where the bitterest sadness will follow. It is a terrible life, but one in which he is inexplicably bound, many know the reputation of the weeper, but most only see the white mask of pain.

Arena Chat Thread

@MelonHead

Ooo, both those characters looks like a very good fight. Lets try out the Weeper, perhaps with a flinklock of sorts.

Scouti is a wanderer searching for new Allomantic metals and alloys so she could wander nearly anywhere.

@Sikako J

Alright, I'll bring the Weeper with a flintlock pistol, one shot, maybe a couple spare balls if he's given time to reload, which can take up to twenty seconds, so unlikely.

Feel free to choose any Arena you want and introduce your character, the Weeper will be along shortly to disturb her with his weirdness.