The Fine Eye
New
Roleplay posts: 4
Registered: Dec 4, 2019 16:24:08 GMT -8
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Post by The Fine Eye on Feb 1, 2020 13:27:06 GMT -8
 Besides the auction itself, the arena within The Fine Eye that is colloquially known as “The Pit” is perhaps the most heavily trafficked area. Both blood and money flows freely in the ever-changing arena that features all manner of fights, fights you couldn’t find anywhere else in the Overworld. Ranging from slaves to master swordsmen and powerful practitioners of magic to gargantuan beasts, it is rare for any two fights to be the same in The Pit. Enabled by powerful magics, the arena itself can take countless forms all while remaining safely inside The Fine Eye. Grassy plains, snowy mountaintops, scorching deserts, and sometimes even a battle at sea. While there are some who watch the arena simply for the thrill of it or to witness masters at work, there are many others who watch simply to try and make a bit more coin by placing bets. There are healers on standby for those who can afford it, but all fighting within the arena itself is unregulated. There is no magic to blunt swords or lessen the blow of a mace. Death in the arena is a frequent and expected occurrence, a fact well known by any who have participated. |
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Eloisa
New
Roleplay posts: 3
Age: 20
Physical Description: Tall, pale, lithe, with fine and delicate features. She wears her flaxen hair long, often tied back or braided.
Like all elves, her ears are pointed. Like her mother, her eyes are a deep amber, narrowed in thought or in suspicion at everyone she meets.
Clothes and Equipment: _________________________________________________________
Eloisa owns little, though she is often dressed in skirts and bodices to her master's liking.
She has one weapon that she forged and enchanted on her own through the violence of a storm: Wick, a quarterstaff that can be transformed into several different weapons and withstand the power of her celestial flame.
Registered: Nov 13, 2018 22:15:18 GMT -8
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Post by Eloisa on Feb 2, 2020 22:27:12 GMT -8
It was a surprise to Eloisa that she wasn't deaf.
Between the roar of the crowd and the clashing of steel, she could feel her brain pounding between her ears. The booming of her powers shook her to the bone and crisped her palms, and yet despite all the abuse she sustained from it, her opponent stood strong.
He was a tall, lanky beast shaped like a man with a head made of billowing smoke. That's what Eloisa thought of him at first, anyway. She soon realized that he'd transmuted his head into a storm cloud in anticipation of her abilities. Every time she threw the celestial flame at him, it electrified the cloud and gave him strength instead of melting the little flesh bag that he was. When he saw an opportunity, he retaliated with an arc of lightning and were it not for her keeping both hands on her quarterstaff, Wick, then she would be the one fried like pigmeat.
Thunder rumbled from her opponent as he swiped for her shoulder. Eloisa spun her quarterstaff and held it vertically against her arm, blocking the hit. The screeching of the blade sliding across the staff reached her a moment too late, shooting pain through her body as it met her flesh.
Eloisa stumbled back, a hand coming to her stomach. There was armor there, but his sword had melted through it as though it were cheese. She spat through gritted teeth, eyes lighting up like a wildfire.
“Oh, that’s rich. Did you mimic anything else? Because you’re a massive cunt.”
The elven woman launched herself forward on dainty feet and swiped down with the vigor of a troll. It met his sword with another clang and boom that assaulted her ears, jolting her teeth, over, and over, and over again. It felt like taking a skillet to her face, her insides a jangling yolk hitting the eggshell.
“Would the little Flame like to surrender? I promise to treat you better than the bloodsucker. Does he cuddle you after desecrating that body of yours?” rumbled the storm-headed man. Eloisa swore she saw a smirk flash where his mouth should have been.
She felt it: a whirlwind of flame stirring inside her. This man struck the iron while it was hot, but he was not going to make anything of it. Her head lashed back, her quarterstaff raised, and she pushed the flame out from her insides, up to her shoulders, down her arms, until they pushed through her fingers and into Wick, lighting it up with the celestial flame that honored her title. Her opponent raised his sword to block, but the strike fell short, striking the dirt at his feet. It cast a bright light and drew his shadow long across the ground. The blast soaked the silver from her hair and turning it a ruddy brown. The White Flame was done.
Laughter boomed from the stands and the babbling storm. He flourished his blade around his wrist, pleasing the crowd with a villainous theatric before slashing at her neck. The arena held its breath.
Blood spilled on the ground, pooling as rainwater did on thirsty soil. It splattered on the elf’s face, not a drop of it her own.
A long snout loomed out of the storm’s shadow, hackles raised like ink splatter. Its jaws — massive, dripping needles that pierced the man’s body — stretched past its wickedly pointed ears. Such a cacophony of noise accompanied its presence, inconsistent and relentless, threatening those who heard it to the brink of madness. The music faded as the beast lifted the storm’s body into the air and disappeared into the shadow, as though it never was.
The sound of a gong resonating throughout the arena was followed by joyous cheers. Eloisa had won yet again, even against an enemy tailored just for her. What a show she provided in The Pit that day! It would be the subject of talk for weeks to come. Perhaps that was long enough for some rest, at last.
Eloisa stood on toddler’s legs, wobbling with uncertainty as she trudged over to the exit. She leaned against Wick for support as the doors shut behind her, fearing a show of weakness to the crowd.
She could not relax for long. A slow, hollow clapping panged at a growing headache and twitched the nerves on her eyelids. Of course, he was waiting for her; the bloodsucker previously mentioned, this tall, beautiful debonair of a man who was pale and strapping and had this smirk that somehow charmed and insulted at the same time.
“Glorious! Ab-so-lutely glorious, my dear. I don’t think I’ve ever been more pleased with your performance. You couldn’t have done this well without my tutoring, of course. I take credit for this victory.” He gestured outward to events past.
He took three graceful strides so that he was upon her, brows pinched as he scrutinized her face. “By the Gods, what has happened to you?” The man raised a hand, brushing by the gouge on her stomach until his sleeve came to rest on her cheeks, where he furiously wiped away at her porcelain skin. Once he was done, that shit-eating grin returned.
“Ah, there we go. You should really be more careful about ruining that gorgeous face. Where would I be without it?” He wrapped an arm around her waist, guiding her down the hall. “No time to waste. The family is here and Maribel watched the entire thing. I need to show you off properly this time, so please, if you could, stop hunching over like an old hag, mm? Thank you, darling.”
And through all that, she followed him, hoping the pain of her flesh outweighed the blow to her pride.
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