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Mostly given up on this post by post business

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The Ruins of Arkulf



Situated on Felenr, Arkulf was one of the many infamous battle sites in the devastating Mage Wars. Featuring the ruined husks of burned and desiccated buildings, abandoned wiring and overgrown plant life, Arkulf is a scenic and unsettling location. It is here that the Mage known as Metz earned his nickname, the Pillar Elementalist.

@MelonHead Dan's a dimension walker like the rest of my characters. How about you pick an arena?


We can fight on Felenr, there are a number of battlefields there from the Mage Wars that could be interesting.
@MelonHead Post is up, sorry for the wait.


Cool, there's your reply.
My weapon?

“You ain’ ready to handle my iron mister, believe me.”

His weathered right hand, gloveless, ran across the brim of his hat, drawing it low so the shade covered his eyes. Those dark green eyes that would have better suited a hawk were swamped by shadow, and the Tired Gun dropped his hand and ran his right finger tenderly over the handle of Mistress. Let the new Sheriff speak what he willed, do what he willed, think what he willed. This was the West, and only one of them belonged here. The West was in his blood, his bones, even his guns. It chewed men up and spat out survivors, wiry cold eyed creatures with the grit one needed to last a day on the frontier. Jonah fucking belonged here, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

This was just like any other day for the Tired Gun, nothing special, routine even. He wasn’t even particularly bothered yet. Cautious maybe, but everyone worth his salt was cautious. He weren’t scared, his old heart wasn’t pumping sandy blood just yet.

Suddenly, there was iron in his hand. Mistress had leapt into his palm almost as if it had a mind of its own, so quick it didn’t even bare thinking about. It didn’t look like he’d whipped the weapon out, but rather there was a blur and suddenly an explosive sound that heralded a discharged round, fired from the hip, his left hand shooting to the hammer, rocking it back, another shot, and another, and another, and another and one last round. Six shots faster than a man could see, faster than a man could think. Hip to chest, that was what was what, not bad considering he was already moving, strafing on right, his gun half-way back in its holster before the echo of his last round had faded in the empty street. Not a first shot, first shots, six of them. The Tired Gun didn’t do half measures.
Yeah, I'd definitely be interested in seeing more of the government response to the new metahuman crises in the second arc. If the consequences slam home it could make for a far more gritty second arc, maybe even culminating in something like the sentinel project?
@MelonHead Coliseum? Or somewhere else?


Well, Metz isn't really a show fighter, despite participating in the NoW. You have to decide what sort of fight you want it to be, Dan could have chased Metz down after the NoW, maybe asked to be sent to Felenr after the tournament.
@MelonHead Sure. Metz versus Dan, round two.


Cool, any preference on the situation/arena?
“Now fella, I reckon it’s only fair for me to warn ya that you ain’ the first to come seekin’ that.” The gravelly voice at first was hard to place, but a closer look revealed it to emanate from an old looking drifter wrapped up in his duster with a hat plonked firmly over his head. He was sat outside the barbers of all places, nestled on a bench watching the world go by. Now however it seemed his lazy day was to be ruined by quite the figure indeed. Dressed as the sheriff no less, which probably meant the worst had befallen him. Never mind that though, people died all the time on the frontier. If it wasn’t to some mad stranger it would have been disease or the wild animals so that was all there was to it. The travel stained old man stood, greyish black hair falling in strands around his lined, weary, face as he brushed some lint from his riding chaps and kicked his boot against the wood of the decking.

“An’ I can’t imagine you’ll be the last neither.” He warned, stepping slowly out into the street, only the closest inspection revealing that he was in actuality playing close attention to his challenger. It was unwise to expect honour in anyone in the west. Hell, he barely had much himself. Just enough to walk into the street and throw back his duster at the waist, revealing an off colour shirt and more importantly the ivory handles of two revolvers strapped to an ammo-belt. At that point the only bystander stupid enough to still be in the way swiftly retreated to the tavern, where onlookers gaped through the wide window, ready to take cover if bullets started flying.

The sun stood before the Tired Gun, or Jonah as he was named by the oriental assassin stood just thirty feet before him. His shadow sat behind him, and it foreshadowed death as his hands stroked the handles of his guns.

“Sure you be wantin’ to walk down this road then mister?”
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