06-21-2018, 10:29 PM
The silent sliver tilted his head in a canine fashion as the grenades clattered around his soggy, haggard boots. The ensuing cloud of smoke and fire sent a visible shockwave thundering into the seats of the quaint arena. In a sane, logical world, the concentrated detonation should have seen the ceramic floor reduced to crumbling ruin. In that same world, Jason should have been little more than a scattering of bloody rags.
In this world, neither of those things happened. Dane Regan, having regained some measure of his lackadaisical composure, rose to his feet and witnessed Jason's stalwart form trudging towards him. Inky smoke rolled away from the beast's towering figure, and at the same time, a thick crust of silvery metal slithered its way back into his cold flesh. Armor, then. Not only did this inscrutable ogre possess a ludicrous resiliency, but he could literally secrete a defensive coating if he felt genuinely threatened. If seven grenades was the threshold for 'genuinely threatening', then there was very little in the mage's tool belt that could even phase this terror. Regan did what he always did when confronted with a tedious problem; he sighed in disgust. In the back of his head, he was aware that he should go check on Handsome Jackass, but decided that there was no time for it. It seemed that Jason wanted his machete back.
"Well, if this match end in death, might as well speed things along." Regan muttered. Taking a calming breath, the unbothered spellsword turned his mind inside out and expelled it through his retinas. He resisted that cloying feeling that, somewhere, his erstwhile instructor in the art of psionics was laughing at the maneuver. Regardless, the Death Stare seemed to have the desired effect on Vorhees. While it was not really possible to see the revenant's pupils through the occluding mask, it could certainly be assumed that the damned zombie was at least looking at him. Jason's thundering stride became more of a shuffle as an unexpected lance of pain blossomed from within his redundant innards. Naturally, the feedback from the psychic disintegration was greater than he had even dared to anticipate. A spurt of spiteful blood burst from between sneering lips as Regan took a knee, keeping his gaze fixed on his opponent.
It could, perhaps, be said that there was a lesson here about the virtue of staring your doom in the face. When it came to escaping execution at the hands of Vorhees, however, the only lesson ever taught was in the folly of hubris. The entire, white-paved platform vibrated with bombastic footfalls as Jason's goliath body broke into a dead sprint, straight towards Dane.
"Uh, okay, uh...shit." Dane said, shaking his head slightly to dismiss his own withering spell. The swordsman dove gracefully to the right, but his moment's hesitation allowed a cold, rough hand to clamp down on his right leg. As Regan was subsequently flung across the stage, he became dimly aware of what it really felt like to be a leaf on the wind before slamming down into the gory remains of Jack's lower body. The slick of blood saw him slide for another yard, before a reluctant grasp prevented him from slipping out of bounds. This really was getting tedious. Still, if there was one thing that Dane hated more than speciously contrived blood sports, it was losing to woefully dull-witted clods like this one. Of course, it also didn't help that he was already being hoisted into the air by his hair.
Once again, Dane was forced to stare into the hollow, black eyes of a shark. With little other recourse, the spellsword tried to call upon his psionic techniques again, but was quite rudely interrupted as a pair of thick fingers ripped his right eyeball out of its socket. This, at least, was enough to break through his laissez-faire demeanor and force a strangled scream out of his throat. His remaining, deer-wide eye flickered in dread as he saw the necrotic fingers line up to claim another prize. Regan came within an inch of begging before an abrupt rattle of gunfire stitched a bloody path up the brute's right flank. It was enough to give Dane time to chop his own hair with the machete (still in his grasp, to his credit), and stagger away in the safety of stealth. He looked back only once to see Vorhees' boot poised above the hideously choking Jack, a sound which, in hindsight, had been a gutted perversion of laughter. A gruesome crunch followed.
Dane's hand covered his right socket as incarnadine tears spilled out of it. He took a deep breath and stared up at the clean, partly cloudy sky overhead. With another prolonged sigh, he looked back down. Yes, yes...Jason was coming his way, taking his damn time as usual. How deep did the reserves of invincibility go? As Dane watched Vorhees stuff the chopped locks of his own hair into a grimy coat pocket, the inquiring mage almost wondered if desecration and blood acted as a power source for this otherwise lifeless predator. Who could say?
Not Jason.
No sir.
In this world, neither of those things happened. Dane Regan, having regained some measure of his lackadaisical composure, rose to his feet and witnessed Jason's stalwart form trudging towards him. Inky smoke rolled away from the beast's towering figure, and at the same time, a thick crust of silvery metal slithered its way back into his cold flesh. Armor, then. Not only did this inscrutable ogre possess a ludicrous resiliency, but he could literally secrete a defensive coating if he felt genuinely threatened. If seven grenades was the threshold for 'genuinely threatening', then there was very little in the mage's tool belt that could even phase this terror. Regan did what he always did when confronted with a tedious problem; he sighed in disgust. In the back of his head, he was aware that he should go check on Handsome Jackass, but decided that there was no time for it. It seemed that Jason wanted his machete back.
"Well, if this match end in death, might as well speed things along." Regan muttered. Taking a calming breath, the unbothered spellsword turned his mind inside out and expelled it through his retinas. He resisted that cloying feeling that, somewhere, his erstwhile instructor in the art of psionics was laughing at the maneuver. Regardless, the Death Stare seemed to have the desired effect on Vorhees. While it was not really possible to see the revenant's pupils through the occluding mask, it could certainly be assumed that the damned zombie was at least looking at him. Jason's thundering stride became more of a shuffle as an unexpected lance of pain blossomed from within his redundant innards. Naturally, the feedback from the psychic disintegration was greater than he had even dared to anticipate. A spurt of spiteful blood burst from between sneering lips as Regan took a knee, keeping his gaze fixed on his opponent.
It could, perhaps, be said that there was a lesson here about the virtue of staring your doom in the face. When it came to escaping execution at the hands of Vorhees, however, the only lesson ever taught was in the folly of hubris. The entire, white-paved platform vibrated with bombastic footfalls as Jason's goliath body broke into a dead sprint, straight towards Dane.
"Uh, okay, uh...shit." Dane said, shaking his head slightly to dismiss his own withering spell. The swordsman dove gracefully to the right, but his moment's hesitation allowed a cold, rough hand to clamp down on his right leg. As Regan was subsequently flung across the stage, he became dimly aware of what it really felt like to be a leaf on the wind before slamming down into the gory remains of Jack's lower body. The slick of blood saw him slide for another yard, before a reluctant grasp prevented him from slipping out of bounds. This really was getting tedious. Still, if there was one thing that Dane hated more than speciously contrived blood sports, it was losing to woefully dull-witted clods like this one. Of course, it also didn't help that he was already being hoisted into the air by his hair.
Once again, Dane was forced to stare into the hollow, black eyes of a shark. With little other recourse, the spellsword tried to call upon his psionic techniques again, but was quite rudely interrupted as a pair of thick fingers ripped his right eyeball out of its socket. This, at least, was enough to break through his laissez-faire demeanor and force a strangled scream out of his throat. His remaining, deer-wide eye flickered in dread as he saw the necrotic fingers line up to claim another prize. Regan came within an inch of begging before an abrupt rattle of gunfire stitched a bloody path up the brute's right flank. It was enough to give Dane time to chop his own hair with the machete (still in his grasp, to his credit), and stagger away in the safety of stealth. He looked back only once to see Vorhees' boot poised above the hideously choking Jack, a sound which, in hindsight, had been a gutted perversion of laughter. A gruesome crunch followed.
Dane's hand covered his right socket as incarnadine tears spilled out of it. He took a deep breath and stared up at the clean, partly cloudy sky overhead. With another prolonged sigh, he looked back down. Yes, yes...Jason was coming his way, taking his damn time as usual. How deep did the reserves of invincibility go? As Dane watched Vorhees stuff the chopped locks of his own hair into a grimy coat pocket, the inquiring mage almost wondered if desecration and blood acted as a power source for this otherwise lifeless predator. Who could say?
Not Jason.
No sir.