AMPHITHEATER (Come on in and cheer the gladiators. Place your bets!)

**Ixelrod** · 12-04-2011, 03:58 AM

It is a feral summer day. A day, perhaps, for BLOODSHED?

Four RESPLENDENT GLADIATORS will meet each other at the center of a sprawling stone coliseum that they may DUKE IT OUT MOST EXCELLENTLY before an emperor and the citizens of his empire. Who will emerge victorious?

Welcome to AMPHITHEATER. Place your bets.

**Ixelrod** · 12-04-2011, 04:08 AM

What is this anyway?

AMPHITHEATER is something akin to Battle threads, except for some key differences. Battlers AND spectators RP. Writing is sparse, and gameplay is much quicker. We're talking two-three paragraphs a post. The idea is NOT to force posting to be faster, but rather to allow for matches to be easier to follow, as is the case with watching any live pro wrestling match where the action goes too fast for pages of words.

This sort of gameplay challenges writing brevity and can also be really fun and easy to play in your downtime.

Furthermore, all of the action is in one thread. An OOC thread may be created, depending on need. But basically, this game was created on two assumptions: that there's some shape or form of gladiator bloodlust in everybody wanting to be written out, and that roleplaying as people who don't actually play can be oodles of fun too.

Read all the rules, then apply. Thank you!

General Posting and Knowhow

Gladiator Guidelines

Spectator Guidelines

Player Application (Spectators don't really need to fill this out)

**Ixelrod** · 12-04-2011, 04:25 AM

Deathmatch I

**TimeothyHour** · 12-04-2011, 03:18 PM

Username: TimeothyHour

Character Name: Mortuus Machina (M. M.)

Race: Automation

Color: Bronze (#B8860B)

Font: Nope

Description: A vague sort of resemblance to humanity is important when creating a machine designed to interact with humans on a regular basis- but not too much of one. An incomprehensible machine frightens, a not-quite-human disturbs, but in-between is a base upon the human mind can latch; it can be frightening or elegant or endearing. Such a design rhetoric was chosen for Mortuus Machina, constructed of bronze and gears and maybe a touch of period dark magic. In particular, a design to shock and awe. A stereotypical roman soldier’s helmet adorns his head, red plumage and all, housing, along with a glass, featureless “face,” a complex system of gears, cogs, and other mechanical nonsense. The theme continues on with the rest of his body, and, as a result, makes the bronze machine blisteringly bright when standing in direct sunlight, which helps hide the fact it has a quite slight frame, almost laughably so. It can speak, but not often, with a voice that sounds pretty much like what a roman automation would sound like: metallic, echoy, imprecise and vaguely unsettling.

Being a automation, he’s not one for human interaction beyond fighting.

Biography: To be frank, in a sport where things die on a regular basis, you need something that can’t. For training the killing blow, for forming long lasting, relevant rivalries, for just plain old juxtaposition.

But it can’t just, y’know, be invincible. It needs to be able to be hurt. To stop. To cease function, only to restart at a later date. It needs to die for a little bit, and then stop being dead.

Hence, Mortuss Machina. The Machine of Death. The Machine of the Dead. Designed to fight, designed to kill. Most importantly: designed to be killed, if only for a short while. Broken parts can be replaced; flesh can’t.

But I assure you. M. M. has a mind. It has a heart.

And somewhere, always ticking, deep in its core, is something that could be called a soul.

Weapon(s) of choice: As both a training automation and a fighter, M. M. is proficient in a variety of weapons, based on the occasion and the opponent. It seems to have a liking towards the more… esoteric weapons, though.

Examples:

What a boring attempt at a kill.

The (obviously very new) gladiator swung his sword in a wide arc, right the automation’s head, presumably in an attempt to cause some kind of harm. With a whirr and a click, however, M. M. dropped down into a kneeling position and dealt a heavy punch to the attacker’s side.

The attack was designed to shock the young gladiator into dropping his weapon. This was exactly what he did. With a flick of the automation’s foot, the weapon was knocked away from the ring, and now it was just a matter of getting on with it.

Punch. Punch, quick dodge, kick. Uppercut, elbow, sweeping kick, pin the idiot down. Bring the fist back like the raising of a sword, let it come crashing down with all the force in the world, into his skull into the brain and blood and destroy this idiot little kid.

“Alright, Mortuss! That’s enough, that’s enough. No killing blow this time.”

With a click and whirr, the automation return to its normal, rigid standing position, staring down at the former quarry with nonexistent eyes. The blood gushed out of the kid’s nose. It was probably broken.

Mortuss Machina did a few calculations. The boy was horrid at the sport. Probably put here as a prisoner of war. Disappointing, really. He’d likely only last a few weeks.

But it, the machine of death?

It was Eternal.

**Ixcalibur** · 12-04-2011, 03:37 PM

In the colliseum there was the buzz of anticipation as everyone eagerly awaited for the first gladiators to be announced and the first battle to begin. The stands were filled with many strange people from strange lands that had by one way or another gathered here. It had garnered a reputation for being the only place in the multiverse you could watch combat this brutal... well at least the only place in the multiverse where such savagery was actually legal. The battles were not due to begin for a while yet, and so everyone was caught by surprise when the busy anticipation was broken, shattered by an agonized scream coming from somewhere above the colliseum. Many heads turned in that direction to see something hanging in the air. From a distance it looked like some kind of massive red worm twisting somehow weightless through the air.

From closer to it was apparent that it was no such thing. It was a mass of muscle, of cartiledge and bone assembling itself, building itself molecule by molecule from nothingness. The agonized screams somehow managed to emerge from a mouth not yet constructed. Slowly, torturously it twists itself, sculpts itself into something resembling a human, flesh and bone are constructed piece by piece, horrifying even some of the most battlehardened observers. Skin as smooth as silk and hair red and rippling, constantly flowing to obscure her face, and everyone was quite sure that the being was female by now. A plain white dress seemingly made from the air itself hung loosely around her slender frame, billowing in the wind despite the stillness of the air. As she descended into the colliseum proper she had the full attention of the crowd.

"Apologies for such an entrance." she said. "I am but a simple spectator. I wish to witness as poor savages are forced to rend one another limb from limb for the amusement of the masses." she paused. "It is something of an interest of mine." With that said she descended into the stalls and made her way through the readily parting crowd to find a good seat. After a couple of minutes the fuss and hubbub over The Spectator's entrance was all but forgotten.

**Ixelrod** · 12-04-2011, 06:03 PM

Hub was nodding off on his pike when a screech woke him back up with a start. He stumbled and managed to prevent his exposed foot from stomping on the edge of his weapon. Alarmed, he scanned the crowd. From his post he could see the morning's multitudes flying, magicking, poofing into existence over the concentric stone seats. He squinted at the rising sun. The Emperor's high seat eclipsed the morning light, but Hub's eyes could see clearly that it remained empty. The Emperor himself wasn't even here yet. It was too damn early for a public disturbance. So what was it?

He scratched at the groove of a scar under his beard. From the corner of his eye, he saw a fair redheaded lass approaching, moving fluidly into his line of sight. Hub noted the gawking crowd parting to allow her to pass. Judging by the expressions on their faces, he deduced that she was the source of all the trouble. When she addressed the crowd, Hub nodded sagely, his suspicions confirmed. Damned sorcery. Hub didn't mind any sort of weirdness a farthing (he believed himself to have done everything and seen everything in all the realms), but the common folk were different, segregated creatures. He pitied them, and any newcomers to the Amphitheater, for that matter.

He stared after the stranger, shrugged and tipped his captain's helmet over his eyes. Pretty soon he fell into a light snooze.

**ch00_bakka** · 12-04-2011, 06:54 PM

Username: ch00_bakka
Character Name: Warmatron Nancy-Ann Grimslayer
Race: Three-Quarters-Orc Grandmother
Color: Old-Lady Hair (adde8e6)
Font: Just the default
Description: Nancy-Ann is the sweetest old lady you ever met. Blue-rinsed hair in a bun, bowl of hard candy, three cats (Mittens, Mister Bibs, and Graymane the Elf-Eater), and a larger collection of skulls than her grandson, Warboss Grosh Grimslayer. She's about five feet tall, with light green, wrinkly skin and red eyes. Her armor is covered in skulls (mainly Elves and humans, with some Dwarf and Orc heads mixed in) and her glasses have those odd little upturned points in the corners. Like if your grandmother multiclassed into Barbarian.
Biography: Nancy-Ann was the only child of Grand Warboss Gorkamork Grimslayer, the only conquerer of both the Elven Interior Decorators and the Dwarven Breweries, and his favorite concubine, Warboss Gorkamork's Favorite Concubine (AKA Lady Murkush Gra-Halbok, of the civilized half-orc Halbok family). She was raised by both her father and mother, and learned the arts of war and courtly manners. Her mother was slightly disappointed when she learned that Nancy-Ann had become an Orcish Warmaiden, but when she saw the hand-crocheted skullsack and Bloodmittens Nancy-Ann had made, Murkush was satisfied. Nancy-Ann became the foremost Warmaiden of the Grimslayer clan, and after her third child by Warboss MUUUUUUUUUURG Smashandgrab, she took up the purse and knitting needles of a Warmatron. Her children and grandchildren love her, her enemies and daughters-in-law fear her. When her children all died in battle and she was sure her grandkids could handle things, she became a mercenary, and eventually a gladiator.
Weapon(s) of choice: The Warpurse of House Halbok. Inherited from her mother, this fifty-pound steel purse contains all the goods a gladiatrix could need: candies, tissues, a few gold coins, a throwing axe or two... It menaces with spikes of iron and orichalcum. It can be very deadly in trained hands. She also has a normal wooden cane. With an axe stuck to one end. A biiiig axe.
Examples:

Warmatron Nancy-Ann walked slowly onto the field, clutching her purse in her right hand and a cane in her left. She peeked over the rim of her glasses, and said to the empty stadium, "Hello, dearies? Are you there?" An arrow shot out at her from behind the line of trees the Emperor had moved into the Coliseum for this match. It clattered off her purse. "Well that's not very nice. Why don't you come out of there. We can talk about this."

Nancy-Ann sighed, as another arrow flew past her head with a whiff. She picked up her cane and shoved it into the sheath on her back. After a moment or two shuffling in the depths of the Warpurse, she pulled out a small axe. "I was wondering where you'd gone off to. Well." - another arrow - "If you're going to be that way, I guess I have no choice."

She flipped the axe in her hand a few times. When the next arrow came flying out of the trees, the axe spun out of her grasp and into the treeline. There was a wet thunk, a scream, and silence. The crowd cheered as Nancy-Ann walked into the small forest to retrieve her axe. "Now then, mister Archer," chop "Maybe you'll learn," chop "Not to assault poor, defenseless old women." Another chop, and a nasty sliding sound as the head went into her skullbag. Nancy-Ann went back through the gate to collect her winnings.

**WaveOfBabies** · 12-04-2011, 10:03 PM

Username: WaveofBabies
Character Name: Conan O'Bruin, the Bearbearian (And his lifelong companion Colbear.)
Race: Were-Bear
Color: Ursine brown, a0522d.
Font: Normal.

Description: Ever heard of a thing called too much bear? Conan hasn't. Conan walks into battle with neatly combed hair, a witty smirk, and a suit of armor made almost entirely from bear pelts. Brown fur covers his body from head to toe, making him look like he's wearing a giant teddy bear suit. A bear's gaping mouth forms the "hood" of his armor, and covering his hands are a pair of long-clawed bear paws. Don't let the armor fool you, though, into thinking Conan is a squishy target. His fur is just an intimidation technique, and underneath it all is a layer of metal thin enough for Conan to be agile in but tough enough to withstand hits. However, if Conan is injured in combat, he changes. His eyes dilate, his mouth grows sharp fangs, and hair begins to spread all across his body. Soon, after a few seconds of horrific transformation, Conan takes the form of a humanoid bear. Still wearing the bear armor. In his were-bear form he is even taller than he is in his slightly short and stocky human form, and he is prone to running on all fours in an animalistic rage.

Following Conan into battle is his trusty bear companion, Colbear. Colbear is a brown bear from the frigid north, large and covered in armor plating. Anyone who tries to attack Conan will soon find Colbear rushing them in a mad frenzy, and his armored claws and horned helmet are no joke. The last person to mess with his human found themselves being disemboweled by a savage headbutt. Nobody knows how Conan made his pet bear so loyal to him, but considering everything else about Conan most just assume he has a natural affinity for bears.

Biography: When Conan was but a small child in the frigid Norse tundra, his parents heard from a blind prophet that he was cursed to turn into a bear in times of great rage. Fearing his destructive potential, they abandoned him in the middle of the woods. For a while Conan was left all alone, to fend for himself, and he feared he would die. That is, of course, until that fateful day when he met the bears. A large mother bear with a cub, so proud and strong, marched right into his neck of the woods in search of food. For reasons Conan would not understand, he felt a deep connection to the majestic creature. He approached it and the cub, curious, and reached out a hand to try and touch the bears. Rather than mauling the child as expected, however, the bear sniffed him a few times and grabbed his shirt with her teeth. The bear then walked off, to raise the child as her own. The cub, who would later grow up to be John Colbear, was Conan's lifelong companion. The two hunted together, played together, and fought for dominance under the watchful eye of their mother. Soon Conan was as bear-y as any other bear in the woods.

Tragedy struck, however, when a Viking hunting party found the feral boy and his family. They attacked, not realizing that there was a human among them. Sacrificing her life, the mother bear fought tooth and nail against at least five or six Vikings to buy Conan time to escape. Conan and Colbear fled, moved by their mother's sacrifice. Years later, Conan had matured and decided to take up combat to avenge his dead mother. Dressing up in a bear-styled suit of honor in his mother's honor, Conan headed to Rome with Colbear in tow to enter the Roman army and attack the country that wronged them. Instead of getting into the army, however, he was laughed off as a madman and sent to the gladiator pits. This is where Conan remains to this day, fighting tooth and nail to finally escape and become free.

Weapon(s) of choice: Conan and Colbear fight with their . . . *shades* bear hands. In times of desperation, though, Conan carries around a massive warhammer.

Examples: Conan O'Bruin stood in the arena, snarling with animalistic fury as he looked around the arena. He patted his trusty battle-brother, Colbear, on the head as he scanned the dark corners of the arena for any movement. Eventually he heard the sound of scraping metal and let out a roar, pointing forward. Colbear broke into a run at this, leaping into the shadows of the arena. He had hit his mark: a scream was heard as bear teeth bit into the weak connecting parts of armor. Conan ran after his battle-brother, hammer gripped tightly as he charged valiantly into battle.

A shield bash knocked Colbear off, revealing the other gladiator. A short, sickly man with armor too big for him and a massive shield. What a coward, hiding behind a wall of steel. "Bear with me for a second," requested Conan, as he lifted his massive warhammer and smashed it into the gladiator's leg. The splintering of metal and bone was heard as the gladiator fell, cheers being heard from the stands as the other gladiator struggled to stand.

Not fast enough, though! Colbear leaped onto the downed gladiator, clawing at weak spots in the armor to soften it up and keep him distracted, as Conan reared back his hammer for a swing. The gladiator looked up, fear in his eyes, as his head was hit like a croquet ball by Conan's hammer. Head flew from shoulders from the sheer force of impact, and the delighted cheer of a lucky fan who caught the head were heard. Conan and Colbear both stood, letting out brutal roars before heading off to collect their winnings. Deep down, though, Conan was disappointed. He didn't even turn into a bear this time.

**Pick Yer Poison** · 12-04-2011, 10:34 PM

Username: Pick Yer Poison
Character Name: Akrool
Race: Dragon
Color: #691FA0
Font: Default
Description: Due to a birth defect, Akrool is larger than any dragon alive. His massive, serpentine body is covered in dark purple scales, which function as fairly effective natural armor. Akrool has four legs, two at the front and two placed about three quarters of the way down his body. Two enormous bat-like wings sprout from the halfway point between his pairs of legs; however, due to his freakishly large size, he is unable to fly. His eyes are bright red with slitted irises, and seem to be constantly sizing up whatever they're pointed at.
Weapon(s) of choice: Every fang in Akrool's mouth is the size of a shortsword, and just as sharp. Both his wings and his tail are strong enough to knock a bear flying without him even noticing. But his most lethal, and favorite, weapon is his fire breath - hot enough to melt steel and sear a man's flesh off his bones in mere moments.
Biography: It's hard to snare a dragon, harder still when it may very well be the most dangerous one of its kind to have ever lived. But even a dragon needs to sleep, and when dragons sleep, they sleep deeply. Deeply enough that if you're really quiet, and really, really gentle, you can lay down the perfect pattern of rope, so that when you wake them up they complete the snaring. And then you can go sell them to the highest bidder and be a very, very rich man.

The highest bidder in this case happened to be a gladitorial colosseum.

Examples:

Akrool was not good at critical thought. Although smarter than the average dog, a dragon could never be truly intelligent; this led to some issues, given that Akrool was a good deal more stubborn than the average dog as well. Which was why, at the moment, he was content to let his foe cower behind a rock in fear, probably busy wishing he'd never entered this suicide match and maybe even regretting he'd ever been born at all.

Akrool stared at the rock intently, blinking in the slow, ponderous way many large beasts do, as if pondering some philosophical question. In reality, he was debating whether or not he even wanted to bother moving to catch his prey, or if he just wanted to wait for it to come out on its own. The crowd began to boo, but it was just noise to Akrool; he'd move when he was good and ready, and not a moment sooner.

Finally, he decided to make a move. He opened his maw lazily, as if to yawn. But instead of a yawn, out came a jet of flame. It engulfed the rock and incinerated the fighter behind it. The crowd cheered as his charred skeleton clattered to the ground. Akrool closed his maw and blinked again. Slowly. Ponderously.

**Wojjan** · 12-05-2011, 02:16 PM

"Myes, myes. People dying. But where's the fun?"

Faith was, the people of Amphitheater would soon find out, a fickle, conniving little bitch. This match between beasts and heroes and robots moreso than any other of the battles carried the intent of captivating. Eye candy. It was, after all, the first time a living god had graced the people with his presence, and though on paper the Emperor had all power, several in the crowd would aim for his head were Pantarei to sigh for it.

Pantarei. God of death, and life, and the cycle between the two. The people would expect, from what little lore people actually wrote about this oxymoron, a saint crucified in the heaves, shackled to His cross. Oh, like a lantern He'd shine, a beacon of hope that would sanctify the battle. Like a true god He would heal and bring plenty.

What they got was a pricky little golden lizard skittering over a black orb. He showed up in shackles because it'd be impolite not to, but the irons moved to his own fancy, which defeated the point more than simply showing up without would have, and some dissenters, though they wouldn't dare admit, couldn't help but feel He did that on purpose. The deity hung from his tainted sphere in a most impossible position, as if sprawling in the shade it offered against the harsh midday sun.

"My lord, my liege, I beg for Your understanding that us mortals aren't as familiar with death as You are."

A lot of commoners sacrificed to Pantarei, but they didn't know there was absolutely nothing you could do to influence his mood. For a second, the god halfheartedly considered casting spells at random to see which of the two gladiators currently on the arid field would get struck first, but he figured he had more important things to do than humor these dying men.

Then again.

The face of a warrior being inexplicably burned alive, as slowly as he did have to feel every ember of it, was burned into the audience's mind.

Pantarei drummed a sticky paw on the black orb he hung on. Booooooring.

**Flummox** · 12-05-2011, 07:29 PM

Username: Flummox
Character Name: Adfectos
Race: Speculum
Colour: Green (#006400)
Font: Default
Description: Adfectos appears as a small child in plain white robes. He has striking brown-golden eyes, the dark skin of someone who has been born with it, and greasy dark hair. However, the guise of humanity is slightly offset by the fact that he is levitating almost a foot off the ground. It also looks strange that his motions are completely symmetrical. Whatever his right hand does, his left does also. Whatever his left foot does, his right does also. He does not flick his eyes from left to right, but rather inwards and outwards. If you watch him closely, you will see the strangest of phenomenons -- when he turns his face to one side, a mirror image of his face appears and mimics the other side. Even the light seems to hit both sides of his body in the same way. A slight smile consistently graces his features.
Biography: Adfectos, like all Speculum (Latin for mirror), has chosen to make all his body movements entirely symmetrical. It looks quite unnatural -- but that's because it is. A Speculum's mind then has effectively half of a body to control. This frees it up for more intellectual purposes, like scholarship, or power ploys, like keeping track of the kingdom's entire archives in the newfound memory space, or for things a little more interesting, like the pursuit of supernatural powers. It is this last one where we find Adfectos. Born into poverty, Adfectos was always an intelligent child, with an insatiable pursuit of knowledge. He was the son of a fisherman and an apothecary, and learned both of his parents trades from an early age. He was the eldest of a family of seven, devoted to his family, and always tried his hardest to protect his younger siblings. When he was but twelve, a nearby warlord unified all of the tiny kingdoms into a single, powerful monarchy. With the pressures of controlling the entire kingdom, the warlord imposed an excessive tax, to keep the peasants poor and unable to rise against him. Now, Adfectos' family was the poorest of the poor. He knew that once the tax collector came, they would succumb to starvation's clawing, withered fingers. So he began to look into ways of obtaining wealth that were slightly... unscrupulous. He broke into the local magistrate's library and began to take books, planning on selling them to the black market. But his thirst for knowledge led him to read the books he had stolen. They were full of ancient lore, ancient knowledge. He learnt all he could, and in three weeks' time, he had become a Speculum through a rite found in one of the books. He sold himself to the Coliseum, left the money on his family's doorstep, and began a new life in the ring.
Weapon of Choice: Adfectos' best weapon is his voice. He needs no sword, no spell, to be able to talk to his opponent. He manipulates them, controls them, fuels their emotions. And then he takes their emotion, and uses it against them. Literally. Magic is a powerful force. And forces need fuel -- humans eat food, machines burn coal. Magic is no different. It takes its fuel from an artifact or another such item. If nothing is available, it saps life force from its user. But Adfectos has no magical artifacts, nothing to fuel his spells. He was not a healthy child at the best of times; using magic would kill him. So he takes his power from other's emotions. He is able to do this because of his freed mindspace. He knows a few spells, both creative and destructive.

Examples:
Adfectos stares across the Coliseum. It is entirely humongous, filled with roaring spectators. The sound is too much for him to bear; it always is. He decides to shut off his hearing. The sudden silence is almost as bad as the noise. But it allows him to concentrate, concentrate on his eyesight, which never has been very good. Blurs coalesce and split at the edges of his vision. He is able to pick out something in the distance, something moving.

He won't be able to do anything from this far off, so he brings himself out into the sunlight. It is blinding and burning, ripping into his eyes and scorching his skin. He shuts off his pain, but does not dare to turn off his sight. Floating out onto the battlefield, he scans the rough terrain, looking for his opponent.

Who is it this time? Probably some twat with slicked back hair and shiny armour. They usually are.

He can make out the outline of his enemy now, and as he walks closer, he can make out the face. Yes, it is a man in shining armour, balding though, wielding a short, glistening sword and a new looking shield. Adfectos analyses his opponent quickly.

This man must have won quite a few battles; he looks well fed and well equipped. His expression, though... is that... weariness? And maybe... boredom? Hmm... he's tired of the life in the Coliseum... is it too easy for him? From the looks of him, I'd guess he doesn't have any tricks up his sleeve, but he's probably a skilled fighter. Best to keep my distance.

Adfectos performs a small spell allowing him to see the man's personal history and experience the feelings he felt. It leaves him exhausted, but it is a necessary step.

Let's see here... Tacitus VI.. joined the Coliseum at the age of 29... for what now? Glory. Hmph. Oh, what's this... a wife, Aelia... Oh, she's deceased... and children, Cato, Laelius, Mariana? All dead, too... barbarian attack, hmm... this, I can use.

"Tacitus!" Adfectos calls out. "How many battles have you won?"

"This will be my nineteenth!"

As I suspected, he's confident.

"So you have killed eighteen."

Tacitus is silent.

"What would she think? What would they all think?"

"Who?"

"Aelia. Cato, Laelius, Mariana. What would they think of you now? A killer."

"YOU! YOU --" this is cut off by a scream of rage as Tacitus charges headfirst at Adfectos.

Good, I got him to neglect his caution. Now, to take his anger and turn it into something more useful...

Adfectos swerves to the side, narrowly avoiding the point of Tacitus' sword. Channeling Tacitus' rage into his mind, he converts it into a simple fire spell. Adfectos' hands burst into flame as he grabs the back of Tacitus' head. A scream is let out, short but gut-wrenching. Tacitus falls unconscious with the shock, his skull melting, charring, loosing a terrible smell. Adfectos simply turns off his sense of smell and holds his hands there, on Tacitus' face, as he chokes on his own flesh and blood, and dies.

Hello, this is the first time I've done anything like this, so tell me if I'm doing something horribly wrong please
I tried to make it short, but most of it is dialogue so it isn't very dense

**Ixelrod** · 12-06-2011, 02:57 AM

The Voice of The Emperor

His Esteemed Glow Pantarei is verily welcome to Our Amphitheater Games! Oh, but there are more to Our battles than merest death.

In the production there is ever wit, life, drama, and a googleplex upon a google of other trills to tantalize the ready mind. These battles you see before you are but mere carnival sideshows to the Main Attraction. Keep in mind, though, that when it has been said We made all the decisions, We of course meant it legally, but should also be taken quite literally as well.

Our Purple Majesty is Emperor of ______, a god in His own rights, Lord of the Veil and Keeper of the Blank Slate, Webspinner of all Origin Stories and master of The Tesseract. The Empire of ______ is an illusion balanced on His immortal palm, a black hole, if you will. While those outside of his realm hold their own semblance of power, in the manner of An Endless One, The Emperor holds supreme power in His. He, after all, is set designer for the battlefield themes, and chief game coordinator, and foremost architect of all you see. But Your standing is recognized and respected, O Circular Excellency. We hope your ticket to The Diamond Box found you well!

A sonorous radio-type voice over the entire assembly of fans

Our honorable spectators: His Highbrowedness, The Emperor, has arrived! As we speak The Emperor takes the High Seat. This means that a brave few have finally been chosen from the eager, gladiatory crop for a RIGHTEOUS battle of the UTMOST PLUCK.

But, there's a catch, citizens and guests.

The Emperor is not quite finished. He has prepared quite a treat this morning, and seeks the willing participation of a few more eager souls before he makes his final decision, just to stir the pot and make this one WORTH YOUR SCEPTERS. That's right, folks. Applications to sell your sou- errr, to become a gladiator are STILL being accepted, but only for a limited time (( until 3PM Pacific Time Tomorrow )). By the given time, if NO WORTHIER CHAMPION STEPS UP TO THE PLATE, applications will close, and the default players listed below will compete. BEHOLD YOUR CHAMPIONS OF THE GILDED RING:

Mortuus Machina, the Bronzed Battledrone. This sleek centurion is GEARED TO KILL.
Warmatron "Nancy-Ann" Grimslayer. Gaudy, green granny who makes goulash of her enemies. She puts the purse in purse-ecution.
Conan O'Bruin, the feared ursine berserker. Beastly, deadly, DANGEROUS. Complete with brutish sidekick, Conan packs enough punch to prune your figurative petunias.
AN UNSPECIFIED THIRD PARTY BEAST OF DEADLY PROPORTIONS.

Become a hero! Become immortal! Place your bets!

**Godbot** · 12-06-2011, 04:13 PM

Username: Godbot
Character Name: Ceraceros
Race: Cetacean centurion (A friggin’ narwhal)
Color: MAUGH (#B39929)
Font: NEIGH

Description:

Okay, I got this.

A narwhal

with two lances

riding a unicorn.

(One of the lances is a giant steam-powered drill.)

Drawn by Schazer and 100% canon:

More art by Pharmacy:

Unlockable alternate costume by Flummox:

Biography: When the Roman Navy received multiple reports that fishing vessels had been sunk completely unprovoked by quote-unquote “the angriest possible narwhal,” they just laughed it off and went back to conquering, like, Carthage or something.

When the Roman Navy received multiple reports that that same narwhal had completely torn apart one of their warships using nothing but its face and a pair of swordfish because one of the soldiers onboard had looked at it funny, they named it Ceraceros to make it sound more impressive and put a bounty of 100 aurei on its head in hopes that they could send enough stupid sailors after it that they could overwhelm it.

A ragtag band of about seven-and-a-half vessels set out at the beginning of the summer, and no one saw or heard from the ships or the narwhal for a good month after that. The Roman Navy figured Ceraceros had been defeated, or least satiated, and they kept the 100 aurei for themselves.

No one knows how this ended up happening, but another month after that, a grizzled old sea captain who no one remembered seeing leave rode into port on Ceraceros’s surprisingly tolerant back. When the Roman Navy demanded to know how he did it, he would just wink (or at least, blink with an eyepatch on) and dismiss it as a trade secret.

The Navy tried to get away with saying that since Ceraceros wasn’t dead and the bounty was lifted, they didn’t have to pay the sea captain the bounty, so he spent the next week training the narwhal to drive a chariot directly at their headquarters. They didn’t bother waiting to see what his plan was before paying him the full 100 aurei. They had a pretty good idea of how it would work.

To get revenge on the captain and his badass narwhal, the Navy declared that since Ceraceros was still a criminal within a Roman city, it should be forced into gladiatorial combat. So, with a sizeable pit of water to rest in and the captain as its personal trainer, the narwhal fought through a good twenty-five increasingly stacked battles, and ended up becoming a huge crowd favorite.

The coliseum just sort of went with it and replaced Ceraceros’s chariot with a magical unicorn from Carthage, where everyone knows they come from, and a highly experimental steam-powered drill lance. These days, Ceraceros is mostly released into the battle to tear apart whoever is left standing when the fight is starting to slow down.

Weapon(s) of choice: 1x giant horn; 1x giant lance; 1x giant steam-powered drill lance; 1x regular-sized magical unicorn (named Monoceros) that can somehow lift it without any trouble; its tail; brute force

Example: Aquila and Horatius circled each other tiredly, each one holding onto their sword and shield more securely than they were holding onto consciousness. Both were covered in minor wounds, but they were just about exactly evenly matched, and they had worked themselves into exhaustion.

Just like yesterday.

And the past three days before that.

The Emperor was starting to think maybe the two former partners-in-crime were up to something. It seemed like a perfectly good ironic punishment at the time, but…

He sighed and rested his head on his fist. Oh well, nothing to be done.

He lifted his arm and extended his thumb. The two thieves in the ring looked up with matching grins, watching for the Emperor’s expression when he would be forced to declare a draw. Again. It was gonna be priceless.

The emperor gave the thumbs-up.

Aquila and Horatius looked at each other. Was he serious? How were they even supposed to finish each other off? And who was the thumbs-up even meant for?

While they were puzzling over this, the Emperor wrapped his fingers around a wooden lever next to his chair and pulled it, thumb still extended. A wooden gate below his balcony creaked open, and they both spun around to look at it.

Their expressions were priceless.

As Aquila looked over his shoulder, a full-sized lance shot past him and buried itself in Horatius’s chest. He managed a strangled cry and fell to the ground as Ceraceros came thundering through the door on Monoceros, its trusty steed. Aquila screamed and dived to one side as the unicorn tore past him, running right over Horatius and making sure to strike him with all four hooves in quick succession.

At Ceraceros’s silent command, the unicorn slowed to a trot, turned around, and raced back towards Aquila, stopping just short of him to rear back, whinnying and sparkling majestically. Just as it had captured the attention of the entire audience, it brought both hooves down on what was left of the gladiator in front of it, trampling it into the ground as the Ceraceros pulled its trusty lance out of his chest.

As Aquila made a break for the open gate, Ceraceros snarled and rushed towards him, raising its lances and aiming its tusk as Monoceros lowered its head and redoubled its speed. Aquila just managed to look over his shoulder as the cetacean centurion stabbed through his back with all four of its weapons at once. The crowd erupted into screams and applause and uncontrollable vomiting as it Aquila was lifted off the ground and torn apart in one motion.

Ceraceros threw its head back and bellowed, a sound like the two manliest icebergs crashing into each other.

**Ixelrod** · 12-06-2011, 06:04 PM

MATCH PREP:

The Emperor takes his Seat.

The crowd in the Amphitheater falls into a precipatory hush. Silence. The Emperor is a tall, toga'd man with a smiling silver theater mask covering his face, and gloves that look like gauntlets twinkling on the arms of the throne. Sculpted sun rays frame his head in a glorious crown.

He raises both hands. A man begins to speak, a little person who, up till now, the crowd has neglected to notice, kneeling at the foot of the throne. The little man is The Voice of the Emperor.

"CITIZENS OF ______," he begins, everything about him still save his mouth, every voice quiet except his, loud as an explosion, heavy as stars. "What a momentous occasion! After a long while, the Amphitheater has reopened its vaulted gates to the public once more. Count yourselves lucky, esteemed citizens. You sit among guests that make their number in divinity, witchcraft, high science and the like! And what a treat We have for you tonight!

"Our noble warriors will be contending against each other in a CROWD CLASSIC. The dark chapters of East Transylvania, a foreign land on an obscure, alien planet eons and lightyears away from here. The forest is endless, tall, dense as the heart of a galaxy, and there is little to no light save the light of the planet's single moon. And what horrors! We have four gladiators for you tonight, but that doesn't necessarily mean the forest is devoid of life. That would have been too easy.

"Tonight, our gladiators compete to complete a single objective. They are allowed to do whatever they may to each other in order to achieve it. There is a tower at the heart of Our beloved dark forest. Three stories high, stone, walls as smooth as pancake batter. At the top of the staircase to the tower is a flag that hangs on a broken beam. The possessor of the flag will win tonight's match, provided he doesn't get hacked along the way!

"And now for Our noble fighting spirits! Please take the time to acknowledge the spectators who have come to cheer. You. On!"

Take your first turn to acknowledge the crowd in your own way, gladiators. This means that you're just saying hi/taunting your opponents for now. Once everyone posts, The Emperor posts again to signal the "readysetgo", and the match begins! Good luck.

Order of Turns
1st: Conan
2nd: Ceraceros
3rd: Nancy-Ann
4th: M.M.

**WaveOfBabies** · 12-06-2011, 08:28 PM

From the silence of the arena's first gladiator pit came a pair of resounding roars. The battle cries rippled into the stands as the audience members supporting the Bearbearian began to let out a resounding cheer, awaiting their champion to emerge. Chants of "Co-nan! Co-nan!" could be heard as barbarian and bear companion emerged onto the stage. Conan's suit of armor was in top condition, and Colbear looked extra fierce.

The two let out another set of roars, looking around at the crowd. They were the first gladiators in the arena and they took full advantage of it, waving to their admirers and snarling at the occasional heckler. Eventually, Conan cleared his throat and began to launch into one of his famous taunt puns.

"You're all going to have to bear with me for a moment," he commented, a dangerous look in his eyes even as he began making such jovial comments. "Because there is trouble bruin in this arena tonight!" He drew his hammer, as Colbear stretched and looked around for the first of the duo's opponents to arrive.

**Pharmacy** · 12-06-2011, 10:12 PM

**Ixelrod** · 12-06-2011, 11:02 PM

**Godbot** · 12-06-2011, 11:42 PM

Ceraceros couldn't actually speak or anything, so it settled for just smashing its lances together, flailing its tail about and bellowing noisily while Monoceros whinnied and sprayed sparkles and glitter into the air with its horn, much to the crowd's horror-but-also-mostly-delight.

It was an emotion that people had come to expect to experience a lot of whenever they showed up at the ring knowing Ceraceros would be there.

**Solaris** · 12-07-2011, 08:57 AM

There was an explosion.

Then another and yet another.

Luckily for the structure of the arena and the lives of many, each and every one of these explosions took place not in the ground but high in the sky. The three explosions, each letting out a sonic boom, coupled with a glorious "Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaah," let out a glorious triangle of flames that got the attention of a number of people. They were the first to see it. A small speck, emerging from the center of the explosions, growing larger and larger.

What was happening was that someone was skydiving out from the explosions. This man, going with the flow, and letting the air brush past his skin was not ordinary in any sense. He was what some would call a show or a hack, but he preferred himself to be Extravagant.

Moving on, this man continued his descent, not worried at all about his imminent appointment with the floor below and instead wondering where he had arrived. He then put that aside when he saw a giant fucking dragon. Landing in an explosion similar to the one he arrived in, standing straight and seemingly unharmed, other than some dust and a few dead bugs on his white jacket, the blond man looked at the center of the stage and had a pair of glasses follow the rest of his body to his face. There was a fifth explosion as he walked forward and gave a thumbs up at where a camera would be.

He walked up to a random servant and asked what the happs where.

"Uhm... well sir, you see this is the Amphitheater, here all sorts of gladiator battles take place... Uhm.. how did you do th-"

"Ah, so I made it to one of those places... what do they call them... colossi, colons, calamities, Colombia..."

"Do you mean a Colosseum?"

"Yes! That. It seems I am in one of those. Groovy. You know I've been wanting to make a historical film for a while now, and this seems like the best place. Yea. Get together a crew and meet me over there, congratulations, you are now Assistant Director."

"But... But..."

"No butts, I am marketing this at teens and someone doesn't like them to be submitted to nudity. Now get out of my sight, I have better things to attend to."

With a flash, the man was gone from that part of the arena, leaving his newly appointed Assistant Director with a scroll of people to hire and items to acquire. He had moved himself to to location of a certain Spectator. Sitting much closer than anyone else was willing, and much closer than anyone would ever advise, the man took her hand and kissed it, introducing himself.

"Hello there miss. The names Micheal Bay, Extravagant, Director, Producer, God of Action. What's a fine lady like you doing here and what's she doing later?"

**Flummox** · 12-07-2011, 03:28 PM

**Godbot** · 12-07-2011, 03:51 PM

Originally Posted by Flummox

**Ixelrod** · 12-07-2011, 05:13 PM

**ch00_bakka** · 12-07-2011, 05:42 PM

Nancy-Ann stepped into the arena. As the crowd cheered and her opponents shouted, she simply watched and waited. Then, after the roaring and the grunting, she sighed. "Now, I know that you young men might not have had the best upbringing, but could you try to keep it down a bit?" Still more roaring. A little louder, "Dearies, could you humor an old lady? I'll let you have your fun in a little while." Nancy-Ann pulled out her cane and waved it in the air, shouting, "Oy! Yew gits betta shut th' 'ell up before Oi take my CHOPPA to yer SKULLS!" Silence fell over the Ampitheater for a moment. "Thank you, dears. You can run along and play now." She sheathed her cane, and settled down in a rocking chair the Colosseum staff had provided, waiting for the battle to start.

**TimeothyHour** · 12-07-2011, 06:51 PM

Click.

The audience continued its silence as M.M. walked out into the Colosseum. He wasn't respected as a fighter. He was a doll, a piece of the scenery, albeit a deadly one.

It lifted the harpoon gun in the air, making classic gladiator motions. Still silence.

It wasn't like Mortuus expect it. Nobody cheered for him.

And to be frank, he didn't really care.

**Ixelrod** · 12-07-2011, 07:22 PM

Main Event

After generous applause, a hush fell over the crowd. Even the tiny dude who spoke for the Emperor opened his eyes at last, as if falling out of a trance. The Emperor stood. He turned slowly, as if taking into account every single face in the audience. Then, as if he were quickly lifting an invisible weight over his head, The Emperor pushed upwards with both hands.

The gladiators were each quickly swept into the air by a protective bubble just as the battlefield below them began to change from pitted sand to stone and dry shrubbery. The walls of the ring became mountainous slopes, and trees sprouted out of the ground. The realm of East Transylvania began to shrink and shrink until its entirety looked very much like a lego reconstruction of a small forest with a visible stone tower at the heart. With another wave of both hands, The Emperor propelled the gladiators' bubbles into the world, shrinking them smaller and smaller. Another bubble enclosed the world itself, magnifying it into a visible TV like sphere that rotated. Mirror-like screens floated above the heads of the bleachers, showing various viewpoints of a gladiator in a dense forest. The main sphere switched cameras from time to time, showing the players waiting for the signal.

Currently, it showed two beary prepared individuals.

THE GAME IS EXTREME CAPTURE THE FLAG.
THE BATTLEFIELD, THE DARK FOREST OF EAST TRANSYLVANIA.

Citizens, place your bets! The main event begins... now!

Thread: AMPHITHEATER (Come on in and cheer the gladiators. Place your bets!)

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