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Post by Spartan of Fire on Feb 14, 2014 17:54:36 GMT -6
Using his momentum, the Spartan met France’s blow full force with his shield. He kept moving forward, trying to push the man backwards, an attempt to make him lose his balance and fall. Chest moving as if hair was moving in and out of his lungs, the air shimmered where his mouth would be, helping the illusion that he was actually breathing, hot air searing as it left the fighter. If someone had the time to look closely, under the armor, the fire creature still moved as if he had bones; bones that would have been burned, black and potential crumbling if not held together with the eternal fire that scored his body and kept him fighting. The fires of battle, ever burning, that could never be extinguished. The heat fell from him in waves, the fire burning just as hot as ever. It would do no good to get to close to this fighter; he would literally burn you alive. The light coming from his own fire helped illuminate the room, reflecting off the walls and off the decorations in it, making it seem like the room had been bathed in hellfire. Keeping with his aggressive movements, he could only enjoy the fight. This was how it was when fighting against one like this. Hearing the other doors open, he ignored them for now. Backing up some, he grinned, this would be a fun fight all together.
"Best keep moving; else you’ll fall in front of comrades.”
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Arthur Kirkland
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Post by England on Feb 22, 2014 7:39:47 GMT -6
Watching the door open before him, Arthur hesitated when a rush of light and heat came sweeping to greet him. This was too entirely different from that room of mirrors that had surrounded him and Germany, with its damning reflections that showed evidence of his sin from so many angles. Images that were still fixed in haunting clarity behind his vision, locked in his mind's eye. Whatever he had to face in this next room was less painful than the idea of returning to where Ludwig's body lie in the space behind him. Would the body even still be there? Or would some foul magic of the Manor have swept the corpse away?
Arthur had been so determined just moments ago. Why falter now? Even if he was about to face his own death at the hands of a monster wasn't that fair? If it had been Ludwig standing in his place then surely the German would have soldiered bravely ahead. And England had never considered himself coward enough to avoid a confrontation. He clenched his jaw so tightly that the muscles flinched, feet crossing their way through the door into that next room to see what was waiting for him here.
The swell of the heat was quickly intense. Already Arthur could feel it stinging at his skin, turning pale flesh a ruddy hue as he lifted a hand to block the rush of warmth that clashed in to chase away the chill which had permeated his bones before. He squinted against the light, trying to protect his eyes from the sting of that heat, in order to view the room and all that expanded around him.
Seeing this monster of fire in front of him left Arthur briefly frozen. He could feel the waves of power rushing off the creature; this was an old magic, evil in nature for all the brilliant flare of light the monster was made of. Arthur could feel the flavour of a curse licking upon his own aura. Whatever power had rendered this monstrosity into a pillar of fire had come from sources of great ability. Just the heat radiating off it was causing the corners of his opened jacket to flutter, hairs stirred as the waves stirred them out of their messy stillness.
Hearing the sound of steel clashing against the surface of a shield was a sound he could recall easily from his childhood. Often had he and his people clashed with the Romans that occupied his territory in those early days. There was no forgetting the ancient sounds of primitive battle when he had been born with them ringing in his ears. Arthur knew how Romans fought for that very reason. He had learnt the harsh lessons of battle in opposition to the greatest military at the time. What advantage that could possibly give him remained to be seen.
Encountering this curse and the element of fire had the Englishman so preoccupied that he almost missed the movement of another in the room. Shadows danced deep on the edges of licking flame, forcing Arthur to duck his face and squint his eyes in order to better make out the identity of the one engaging the Flame Warrior in battle. He felt the shallow rhythm of his breath falter entirely when he pinpointed the image of France just beyond the rippling air. The Frenchman's image fluctuated behind the heat in a way that gave him the quality of a mirage. His battle with the conflagration before them was no illusion.
Dread opened a pit inside of Arthur. Would he be forced to witness another death here? Worse yet, that it would be Francis to fall before his eyes this time? He could not allow such a result. Arthur knew that he would have to do something. He had made it a point since the turn of the last century not to let the Frenchman stand alone against any enemy if it could be avoided. Now would be no different.
Arthur charged into the heat, eyes moving restlessly. He needed to seek out a point of weakness. Or divine some means of combating a creature of fire. His mind was racing over options, eliminating many outright as he slid to a halt just on the other side of the monster, to place himself in clear view for Francis to let the other man see that he was there. He called over to him, voice ringing with clarity as he gave the Frenchman a warning. "Don't let it get too close! It might be deadly in close combat!"
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Post by Spartan of Fire on May 11, 2014 16:09:25 GMT -6
Hearing one of the other doors open, a grin stretched across the Spartans face; or, well, what would have been if he would have had lips and skin and physical muscles. Though he kept his main focus on the man before him, he kept a sense to see what the new man would do with this fight. Charging forward with his shield, he thrust it towards the Frenchman in a bashing motion. He was still playing with his target, not really attempting to kill him yet.
"Don't let it get too close! It might be deadly in close combat!"
Still not looking at England, he just scoffed at that statement. He was Spartan; he was death on two legs. A gravelly sounding chuckle left his lips as he thrust his spear at the Frenchman, tearing cloth and injuring his shoulder in the process. An injury here and there where the blood could flow freely would only add to his blood-lust.
“Dangerous is correct. Come; join your friend, for you won’t be together much longer.”
Heat flowed and radiated off of him, proving it was unsafe to stay too near and too far would put them in the rage of spear and shield.
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Post by Deleted on May 17, 2014 16:21:36 GMT -6
Roderich’s shoulders were still very tense when the door clicked and slowly opened. His rifle was still held up high, prepared to shoot in case anything jumped on him and tried to attack him. He was not met with force, however, but with sudden heat and the smell of something burning. His nostrils twitched at the suddenness of it all, especially the intense heat. It seemed that unlocking the flame was giving him a taste what to except. A brightly burning specter appeared in the room and Roderich’s breath caught in his throat. A burning man?
Roderich had never seen anything like it. He froze by the door as he examined the thing enveloped in flames. He could feel some strange power radiating from the thing too, something he wasn’t exactly capable of understanding to be honest. Despite not being tied too much to it, Roderich had always had a bit of a logical, or at least rational view of the world. And yet here he was seeing something that he wasn’t sure if it was real or not, yet the empirical evidence was right there.
Orchid eyes narrowed under dirty spectacles. This house had been nothing but hell anyway, so if it decided to add fire and brimstone to its skills, it was very appropriate. Roderich wasn’t dressed for the heat unfortunately, so he could feel the beginnings of sweat on his palms as he gripped his rifle tighter. He always preferred colder weather, something about being an Alpine country.
Something very familiar came to his ears, the sounds of fighting. From the shadows he could see an even more familiar form clashing against the burning man. It was hard to make out his form clearly, the heat radiating off his foe making much of the space around him appear as a shaking illusion. But, if it was France, his old foe (there were very few people he truly hated in his life and most were mortals. He couldn’t tell how often Francis had been in the ‘hate’ category among his fellow nations in the past), how curious that they should ally once more, then perhaps the Manor was allowing them to work together.
A weird feeling thrummed in Roderich’s body and it was not fear. It was the seed of an idea, of an emotion he hadn’t felt since the lights dimmed on the first time here. Hope. It was small, just the seed of an idea that perhaps he’d make it out of here, that his fellow nations could take this creature. Mostly he was happy because seeing Francis attacking the creature meant that the next task wasn’t killing fellow nations. And that was good because the little boy’s blood was still splattered over his clothes and his death prayer on his lips.
The seed grew into a seedling when he saw Arthur, who he hadn’t noticed, step into room. Roderich watched him approach Francis and he wanted to step out of the shadows as well, but unsure of what to say to either of them. Especially Arthur, because he’s got his boy’s blood on his clothes. He briefly wonders who they had to kill to get here, who they had to see stop breathing. He wonders if they feel as bad about it as he does.
"Don't let it get too close! It might be deadly in close combat!"
Roderich was sure that was obvious, it was in flames and it would be deadly in mid-range combat with a spear and even worse if he could throw it. There was little they could probably do to the burning soldier. Perhaps the clue lied with the password they were given...
“Dangerous is correct. Come; join your friend, for you won’t be together much longer.”
He chose to stew over that threat later, as he needed to make the others aware of his presence as well. He took a few steps into the shadows, his palms sweating with the increase in heat but his rifle still poised and ready in his hands. Clearing his throat loudly enough so that France and England would hear, he took a step and aimed at the soldier in flames.
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Post by Deleted on May 30, 2014 14:56:35 GMT -6
It seemed the warrior did not take kindly to Francis's biting sarcasm, set instead on its own genre of fun. That was a touch disappointing, but the Frenchman did not allow his mind to stray too far from where his concerns should lie. Focusing too intently on his anger might result in utter carelessness. That irritation still had the lead over him, boiling under his skin and threatening to turn his thoughts reckless.
No, a battle like this called for strategy. The heat of the Spartan's fire was the element that set Francis's mind straight, reminding him that one thoughtless action could spell his sudden death - swallowed up in flames, turned to ashes. The name of the French Republic would be utterly meaningless at the Spartan's feet. Still, the only problem was that any strategy was disheveled, lost in details that Francis couldn't yet understand - this room was unfamiliar, this foe was unfamiliar, and his blade against a roar of fire wasn't something he could easily tackle. However would he win over something like this...?
Francis's claim that the Spartan's shield was unfair made its point. Knocked by that blow of searing metal, the Frenchman stumbled several steps backward in unintentional compliance to the Spartan's desire. However, he refused to let himself topple over. The close settle of his enemy's flames was beyond discomforting and Francis's teeth were clenched in all his effort, legs careful not to make a wrong step as he kept himself upright. Allies would be helpful right about then, but Francis had entirely missed the sound of doors opening and clicking shut again. All his ears caught were the roars and crackles of close fire, the mocking tone of Spartan's voice.
But the pronounced clear of someone's throat certainly did not come from this beast. Francis was broken out of his concentration, but before he could dare turn his head, another figure emerged from beyond a wall of stifling heat. It took only a flit of squinting sapphire eyes to recognize a face tinged by heat, calling to him from worn features: "Don't let it get too close! It might be deadly in close combat!"
Looking away was a mistake. His weight jerked and stumbled back a second time, wincing at the shield blow. The heat was growing impossibly overbearing, which made him oddly grateful that his staggering resulted in distance between himself and the fighter. Blood was blooming under the surface of his skin and tinting it pink. Sweat seemed to permeate from every pore, making his clothes stifling and his eyes sting from that which had dripped from his forehead.
The reflexive swing of Francis's rapier was untimely. He caught the motion of the Spartan's spear too late. His scream was short and rugged, torn from a throat dried by the surrounding heat and smoke, and the pain in his shoulder burst white hot like his assailant. Blood that spilled from open skin was just as hot, soaking through and staining what fabric was still attached on his clothing.
"Merde, Angleterre--" he started. No, the temperature was helping little to aid that fresh wound. His heart was pounding but at the same time it felt sluggish, his body struggling to maintain its normal temperature. Sweat coated in thin dripping sheets, but he couldn't feel its effect. His feet crept back, slow and uncoordinated, to distance himself from overwhelming humidity. "A-Arthur, s'il tu plait, do you see anyzing zat could 'elp? Anyzing over on zat side?"
He did not touch his wound, hardly even looking at it for that matter. The bleeding did not stop and was only further stimulated by the heat of the room. Francis's head turned to view Austria for the first time, addressing him with better confidence: "A-and Roderich, be careful. We don't know whezer 'is shield and 'is armor will deflect it or not."
The use of 'we' affirmed that he viewed this as all of their battle rather than just his own. Still, he felt the need to lead it. Carry a strong head, even if his shoulder ached with tender pain and his mind nagged for relief. He expected, without having to command it, that they would comply and work together.
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Arthur Kirkland
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Post by England on Jun 3, 2014 23:15:24 GMT -6
Arthur's gaze was pulled in the direction of Roderich's entrance. That added another to their numbers but would that be enough when pitted against such an impossible creature? He opened his mouth to call out to the Austrian, the sound silenced into a gaping gasp of alarm when he saw the Spartan strike at Francis. All the oppressive heat aside, seeing the Frenchman being wounded by the monster briefly froze Arthur in his tracks. It didn't seem like the wound was a mortal one; Francis was already backing off from the thing, and even from his position, Arthur could see the brilliant glare of glossy blood on the Frenchman's shoulder.
He was separated from the two men by the pillar of living fire that was clearly intent on cutting them down. Trying to get around to them wasn't a wise course. They presented options to the Spartan; three targets in different locations rather than conveniently grouped together for an attack. While Arthur had never personally encountered a true Spartan in his lifetime, the feel of its combat manner was familiar. This aggressive figure was similar to those of the Romans that had occupied his land in his youth -- different techniques, perhaps, yet the same patterns.
Block with shield. Thrust with spear. Wait for an opening. Wear the opponent down and finish with brute strength.
This wasn't anything like he'd encountered before. There was the prowess of a warrior in the stance of the Spartan, and a strong presence of magic. Magic on a level which dwarfed his own abilities considerably. It was raw, untapped power, greater than any type he'd encounter. This isn't any kind of magic manifested on the plane of Man, he marveled in stunned silence, but from somewhere else entirely. It reminded him of his earliest years. Watching the Druids of his land performing impressive feats of magic, tapped into the elements around them, able to pull strength from the very forces of nature they worshipped.
Arthur couldn't get a lock on where the source of the power was coming from. The Spartan itself exuded an unnatural presence. Underlying all of it was that constant nagging itch of negativity from the Manor. He was sure he would have felt this immense presence before -- so where had it come from so quickly? His eyes moved around the room in darting searches, stung by the heat and left watering as he squinted. The air was too full of rippling distortions to see reliably.
His costume already felt far too hot. A bead of sweat went trickling down the nape of his neck into the crisply folded collar of his police uniform. He ignored his discomfort as much as possible. Physical discomfort was less of a priority than physical harm. Francis had already received the first blow from the Spartan; blood was drawn and the battle charged. Arthur's eyes tracked the Frenchman's movements as he danced back from the Spartan's range.
They weren't without their own skills. Francis was a quick, adept fighter. He'd crossed swords with the nation of France enough times to know that the man was a master with swordplay. They were blessed that Francis had brought that rapier with him. Arthur cursed the fact that he had chosen a gun to accompany his costume, as a sword wouldn't have suited a police officer in the slightest. What effects would bullets have on a creature of living fire? From his distance away, it appeared that Austria also had a gun. Neither of them offered much from an offensive standpoint.
On the other hand, this would put Francis in considerable danger if he alone tried to take on the warrior. He'd just faced Ludwig's death; having to witness the Frenchman's would do irreparable damage to his psyche. Arthur couldn't stand idle while letting the other man carry the full burden of their danger. The reflection of flames off the mirrored walls did not offer him much in the way of ideas. His gaze landed on one of the decorative items instead. A gloved hand closed around it, lifted as it was to chuck at the Spartan's helmet to smash against the back of the metal with a dull 'thunk!'.
"Oi! Don't save all your dancing for that nancy-boy, you flaming twat. Come take on a real man if you want to prove yourself a warrior."
If his only option was to give Francis and Roderich enough time to come up with an alternate plan, then he'd serve as the decoy. Since there were two of them on that side, hopefully the two men would put their heads together for an idea. Arthur was edging more distance from the Spartan after he gave that taunt, green eyes darkened with concentration. He wasn't built for immense physical strength but he was quick on his feet. So long as he kept dodging, Arthur hoped he'd be fine. And just in case the taunts of his own tongue went misunderstood he added another for good measure. "I've seen goats fight better than this. Come on!"
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Post by Spartan of Fire on Aug 27, 2014 15:30:06 GMT -6
Each step the Spartan took gave a new wave of thought in his head, analyzing battle strategies as easy as breathing. Well, it would have been if he needed to breathe. Somehow those steps didn’t burn a hole in the floor, it was unclear how, but the floor stays perfectly intact. Each move he made sounded like fire crackling on already scorched wood. Though in this case there was no way to tell if the monster still possessed bones to burn, or if they had already cracked and split and burnt to ash.
Eyes narrowing as the door opened again, part of its attention was on the figure that came through. Part of his mind was connected with the manor by choice and the Master supplied the quick flash of who this man was, the once great nation of Austria. This wasn’t the first time he had seen a gun, for he had been shot with them multiple times before. It was almost laughable at the use of a firearm to fight a creature whose very essence was ever burning fire. All weapons against him were laughable.
"The once Great Austrian empire, welcome to your doom"
Spinning around to face the dark haired man, he raised his spear and rushed him, a grating noise coming from the area of where the creatures throat should have been could be considered for a chuckle. Before the man had the time to back up or get out of the way, the spear was thrust through the man’s chest, red blooming around the weapon and spreading like a flower in bloom. His fiery face split into what could only be considered a smile as confusion and pain flicked across the man’s face. Then as the color slowly drained and he fell limp, only being held up by the spear that was through his chest, it was obvious the monster was merely toying with his opponents. It was obvious that the man was enjoying all of this, the thrill of the battle that shot through non-existent veins. This is what he was looking for, this is what he needed.
Pulling the spear out of the man, he whirled as the former Austrian hit the floor with a soft thud, clothes already smoking from the heat that penetrated the air around the warrior. Armor created as it moved, fire licked over the metal and traced patterns that was hard to distinguish but for a brief second, if one was paying attention to detail, the patterns resembled ancient Greek letters.
"Keep entertaining me boys, you'll live longer."
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