When he looked back, he could see that his spear lay abandoned on the ground--it hadn't hit its mark, then. Unsurprising. But there was Draconua: looming over the pit, her massive maw opening, erupting first in words: "OUTRUN THIS!"--and then, in fire.

Black fire plumed out, igniting the oil-soaked sands, leaping with flashing embers of violet shadow from stained patch to stained patch. They swept toward Nemesis--and the Sentinel felt the briefest twinge of guilt as they reached her, as she reached the door, as she slammed trapped against the wall with the fire close behind her.

There wasn't time to feel more, to assess it, to wonder why he felt at all: the shadowflame was flaring toward him, too, rapidly engulfing the arena and leaving very little open space to run to.

Blue gaze sought, desperately, any patch of earth untainted by Corruption, and he spotted the nearest--it is far--too far?--and ran for it.

First, however, he had to survive Nemesis's wounds. All this time, though she had been bleeding, so was he: and so he had two dangers to outrun. So to speak. The first... was his weakening body, his narrowing vision, the gray threatening to encroach around the world and narrow it to pinpoint, dying sight.

Only second would come the fire.

Round: 8/?
Attempt: Don't fall down
Defense: --
Injuries: sore ribs, ragged tear wounds across chest and abdomen

He stayed upright--somehow, barely--though on all fours; spined arms dragged him along, legs scrabbling at the sand. He could feel the strange and bitter cold of Draconua's fire snapping toward him from behind. Could hear it hissing, snapping, crackling like snakes. Before him, black ash was beginning to scatter, a promise of what would happen to him if he did not get out of the way fast enough.

The crowd was roaring. His Master, he knew, was watching. Undoubtedly so were a hundred other pairs of eyes: judging, bloodthirsty, hopeful of his death. Of both their deaths. But those considerations were distant, right now--unimportant. They were nothing compared to the icy fire consuming the arena behind him.

A dodge, leaping to one side--as black fire twisted past him. Another--a crooked leap, the motion of a crippled animal--that threw him to the other, as another arc of flame hurtled past in a bitterly cold roar.

He moved with singleminded focus--the crowd, Vargas, Nemesis, even Draconua herself all forgotten--throwing himself bloodied and desperate between the few patches of open, clear sand. Dark fire engulfed the world around him, snarling between each puddle, sweeping past, filling the world with pitch-dark, choking smoke-...

...but when it cleared, he remained--on his knees, coughing, but otherwise miraculously untouched--in the arena's center.

His eyes cut to Nemesis; sought her out through the smoke, her form burning, wounded-... Will it survive? he wondered.

He hoped, vaguely--past the exhaustion and the pain--that she would.

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas had watched with eager interest, his natural grin a genuine reflection of his enthusiasm for this fight. The Sentinel was his own creation--his own spawn, molded for his own design. But Nemesis--she was a true brute, a powerhouse, one he at once admired.

The fight, then--as expected--was a good one. He had judged it a truly even match: Nemesis managed one strong hit to start with, weakening the Sentinel throughout the fight, but he'd hit well with his weapon, too. And Draconua-...

Well. It was irony, perhaps, that Vargas had created the Sentinel at least in part because of Draconua. Her uncontrolled Chaos had made him realize that they needed a strong, controlled force within the Forge before trying to churn out chaotic monsters such as she; the Sentinel's stone had been chosen for its stoic demeanor despite the Creator's touch upon it. And the result, Vargas was pleased to see, was now proven in its worth: the Sentinel fought with tenacity and resourcefulness both. The Leviathan held his breath--ceasing his roars of "BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!"--when the black fire filled the fight. But when it cleared and the Sentinel was left standing, he shot up from his bench with a bellow of triumph and approval.

"YES!" he bellowed, and glanced to Nemesis--if she died, her stone would be of use, but-... no, she was not dying. Perhaps that was for the best; she was a good design on her own, a solid one, and he wanted to see what else she might do in this life. But the Sentinel-? It would be healed, and push on, he hoped; and he would see how far it might go.

I must get it armor, he reminded himself--a little belatedly.

vargas as a toxic sportsfan

DEATHMATCH

"GYAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—" koff, koff, wheeze, sluuuurp—! "—HAHAHAH!"

Nemean smashed the remains of her slushy (complete with added sugar syrup as per her own request and Nedies' increasing concern as he tallied how many grams of sugar she'd eaten in the past two hours alone) and howled her delight. "WE CALL THESE COCKROACHES! THEY JUST DON'T DIE!" A finger pointed in the direction of the Sentinel, and from the dog-beast erupted a spray of cyan fireworks. "Well—HEHEH!—this one for sure didn't die! Or drop dead before the other one!"

Damn shame about Nemesis collapsing under fire, but, like... she wasn't being flash-cremated by Draconua like that one cat was... she'd fight on, yet!

Just... a few weeks from now or something.

"Aaaaaaaanyways," the sprite chirped with a ceremonious roar of excitement and clapping sputtering from stands that were much too empty to be so loud, "HAIL TO THE VICTOR! THEEEEEEE SSSSSSSSSSENTINEL!" Another burst of fireworks (now with confetti!) exploded above the Sentinel's head. "WATCH OUT FOR HIM ON THE WAY TO THE TOP, EVERYBODY!"

Golden eyes fluttered to her empty hands distractedly. Having already forgotten that she was the one to exile her cup to the infinite void of nothing, she hissed in the vague direction of absolutely no one. "Hey! Where can a Master get a DRINK?"

With a bzzpt! of diaphonous pink wings, Nemean turned to the arena after that. "Someone make sure he gets his pointy stick on the way out or something, whatever—ON TO THE NEXT ONE!!!"

_____________

DEATHMATCH WINNER: THE SENTINEL

Character: Nemesis Age: +5 (75 Cycles - Capped) Magic Level: +5 (Champion) ROUND 1 Attempt: +13 Penalties: - ROUND 2 Attempt: +18 Penalties: - ROUND 3 Attempt: +14 Penalties: - ROUND 4 Attempt: +8 Penalties: - ROUND 5 Attempt: +15 Penalties: - ROUND 6 Attempt: +4 Penalties: - ROUND 7 Attempt: +20 Penalties: - ROUND 8 Attempt: +7 Penalties: - Total: 109

Character: The Sentinel Age: +5 (10 Cycles - Capped) Magic Level: +7 (Trans. Champion) ROUND 1 Attempt: +7 Penalties: - ROUND 2 Attempt: - Penalties: - ROUND 3 Attempt: +16 Penalties: - ROUND 4 Attempt: +17 Penalties: - ROUND 5 Attempt: +16 Penalties: - ROUND 6 Attempt: +16 Penalties: - ROUND 7 Attempt: +8 Penalties: - ROUND 8 Attempt: +4 Penalties: - Total: 96

NUMERICAL WINNER: Nemesis

Damn you both for being so damn good at dodging and making for a fight that lasts 4 pages— uhhhh, congratulations!
@Nemesis @The Sentinel

He pushed up, wheezing, half-hunched and with one arm clutching his chest. Black blood still spilled, dripping, from the gored gashes across chest and abdomen; other than that, he was... unharmed. If he hadn't been-?

His gaze drifted to the forming lump of blazing Wulfenite in the far corner. If she had impacted him again--she could have crushed his bones, ripped limbs from body, torn his head clean off.

The Sentinel began to worry what else might lie ahead. And to really, really wish he'd gotten ahold of some armor sooner. He staggered fully upright, and began the slow limp to his discarded halberd--his eyes flicking from it (vision wavering) to Nemesis's fallen form.

Vaguely, he wondered what a "cockroach" was.

The trek across the arena was brutal. Now that the adrenaline was leaking away, he felt exhausted, and the pain was truly kicking in. Some spark of residual chaos threatened to break through his stoic resolve--some desire to lash out, to inflict damage, to engulf Nemesis's chrysalis in black flames. Black flames he didn't have, know, or control. He didn't possess such magic.

Teeth grinded together, and he at last reached his halberd: clawed hands--trembling--closed over black metal. His gaze lifted to the Wulfenite, and he murmured to it, a hollow rasp. "The Tonka Truck... fought well," he assured the insensate rock.

A single glance up to Vargas, and he hoped he had earned some form of approval; the Leviathan had leapt down, to help Vakornol in dragging out the enormous gemstone before it settled. The Sentinel lifted the halberd, leaned on it, and began the hobble back.

A win, for now--and past the empty blur of pain, he felt that seething Corruption reaching for his heart. Brutish triumph, savage fury--win, overcome, destroy, thudding in his mind.

Shimmering blue erupted from his back, flared and faded, flared again; he didn't explode into action, but he did gently lift off the ground and--magic wings flapping--hover across the arena floor, and out the door at the other side, halberd still in hand. That same fury pulsed in his chest, triumphant, and he struggled to tamp it down.

exit Sentinel