The Buttercream Woods

"I have a knife!" Talia exclaims, voice filled with pride as she shows off one of her many knives.

Tsatsa looks around at the filling arena, and then back at the Guide and the Speaker. She opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it as she realizes it might not be the wisest thing to do. Instead she begins to discreetly charge magic (1).

Talia draws two knives in a motion that is fluid in a way reminiscent of dance. The pair sit in her hands for a moment; one handle rounded and molded as if for her specifically; the other a bit bulkier, with a more defined shape that her fingers don't quite wrap around.

She flourishes them for a second, the one in her right hand held above her shoulder and the one in her left held about chest height. She throws the one in her right hand first, extending her arm with a flick of her wrist, her gaze flicking over to find her target. The curved blade spins through the air, its single edge carving a path towards one of the yellow robed acolytes.

Barely a moment passes before she throws the other blade, her arm folding and pressing across her chest before arcing up past her face. She releases the blade as her arm straightens, the triangular point flying straight as an arrow in a path that will find a different acolyte's chest.

As soon as the second blade releases her fingertips she slides backwards, her personal gravity tilting the world around her. She leans into it, tilting forward to face the ground as her feet trace paths through the dirt. Her right arm returns to the bandoleer slung across her chest, dancing up and down the length before pulling out another weapon, this time a sturdy dagger sheathed near her hip. She pulls the weapon free and swings it up into a defensive position, her left hand finding a weapon of its own as she slides to a halt, perhaps three or four meters behind the others.

The dagger flies true, and the Speaker falls to their knees, clutching at the knife in their chest.

With various war cries and other such yells, the cloaked warriors throw themselves at the group below in droves, seemingly without care or regard for their safety.

The Guide does nothing, at least for the moment.

The pole seems rather effective, dashing several of the closer attackers to the ground (even sending one crashing with a resounding crack into a nearby wall) and causing a few of the farther ones to retreat slightly from her weapons.

Another small group of yellow robes lunge toward Talia, brandishing all manner of weapons in an attempt to overwhelm her with sheer numbers.

The Guide walks over to the Speaker. As he goes, he intentionally brushes over some of the markings in the floor.

The Guide lets out a low sound. Almost like a laugh.

Tsatsa freaks out, and in a brilliantly stunning flash of light she teleports up into the coliseum stands. She summons several weighted nets, which float around her, and launches them at any of the robed figures that try to approach her spot.

The cultists fall like stones, unable to keep up with Talia's superior speed. However, a few of them manage to rally, standing still for a moment as another chants something unintelligible and waves a glowing staff over their friends' heads.

A moment later the three affected cultists glow with strange energy. Turning to face Talia, they move suddenly, bodies blurring from sheer speed as they close in on her in mere seconds. One leaps above, a greatsword he should by no means be able to be carrying swinging like a star toward Talia's face, while the other two circle in from the sides, swinging a mace and a staff at her in turn.

The Guide kneels, picking up a shortsword one of the other cultists had dropped on the ground. He looks at the Speaker, and laughs a high-pitched, cold laugh. "Of course by myself, I could not open the gate. But I have my own friends now. And all of yours are fighting all of mine...and where does that leave me? Oh yes."

The Guide rams the sword into a segment of the ground overlaid with a mass of specific runes and lines. The Speaker screams loudly, rising to their feet and jumping at him. "You fool! You were defeated once before, and I will defeat you agai-"

The Guide does not so much turn, as shift his entire body around, piece by piece, like some horrible moving picture. Beneath the hood, the Guide's body shakes, rippling almost as if its possessed of a peculiar, alien motion. He finally seems to "move", raising a disjointed, warped gray arm. The Guide looks at his arm for a split second, as the Speaker is charging, exercising his will over the matter and ancient "flesh". The bones crack and splinter, reforming back into their original substance, as the flesh dissolves into a gooey, light-grey substance, which swiftly twists into an elongated, conical shape, and then a more spherical, twisted shape. A mace.

The Guide swings their new "arm", and a resounding crack is heard, as the Speaker flies backward across the arena. Trembling from the effort, the Guide laughs sharply, lowering to their knees and focusing on something....else.

Charging....(1).

Charging.....(2)

The blasts are absorbed, but it seems the yellow-robes are getting more organized. Three others climb up to the previous caster's position, raising their own casting-devices and chanting in some hard-to-hear language. A ball of energy forms above their heads, shooting a few bolts of lightning at Tsatsa. A few more bolder cultists climb up after her, brandishing rocks or various weapons in their hands.

Two more robes run at Talia. 

The Guide is kneeling now, body shaking like a leaf. His gray arm has returned to its normal shape, and his body is rippling, twisting and coiling around itself like his very skin is alive.

He looks upward, the yellow hood falling away from the Guide's head as dim sunlight washes the gray, pale-scaled skin of the Guide's angular, almost draconic features. It's hard to see from a distance, but from the figure's shaking....

....it looks like the Guide is laughing.

Talia's personal gravity shifts once more, pulling her towards the staff-user. She ducks beneath his strike and slides past his legs, striking one knife towards where his calves should be.