Post by Lys' on Apr 28, 2012 20:49:54 GMT -5
A mild powers T1 fight encompassing low - high end MP standards.
No judge has been discussed, but if the need for one arises we'll come to agreement on who may or may not judge, to prevent idiotic claims of biased.
Profile for Katana Ashigaru: 1.roleplaychat.org/profile.php?userid=124246
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The broken, scattered columns littered the ground below like fingers reaching for the sky, attempting to find a handhold to pull the giant they belonged to from the ground, wherein he was trapped. They massive stone segments were magnificent, even broken as they were. In their prime, they had formed a massive arena floor where only the strongest of competitors had been allowed to compete, chosen by the benevolent forces of the Multiverse, who brought their champions to the battlefield to determine the distribution of power among them. Outright war had died off in those times, as people had instead chosen this manner of leadership decision. Then everyone had flourished, their lives made better and whole. Then the cataclysm came, and everything changed. The Primary Fault, the exact center-point of all worlds and all realms, exploded in a burst of black fire and magical might. The groundwork of everything shook and broke, and pieces of life were destroyed. A way of life that once existed broke apart and became nothing more than the fitful ramblings of old men and woman, the few who survived the purge that the explosion set loose upon the world.
Creatures never before heard of were born within the Fault, created from the latent malice and malevolence which had come to reside there, and many a brave man and woman lost their lives serving their country and their planet attempting to repel the great beasts. For a thousand years the Primary Fault was an active volcano, a forbidden zone with an ever raging war constantly evolving and fluctuating within. In the end, numbers proved to be useful, and the Confederation of Sentient Beings won out over the Fault’s destructive creations, and the Fault fell back into inactivity. Still, it was declared forbidden - and all attempts to gain access were oft met with war and utter destruction. Still, few people managed to slip inside, never to be seen or heard from again.
In 3576 a group of Scientists were permitted to enter, along with a military escort of a thousand ships and a hundred thousand soldiers. Their findings were to be top secret, until the dangers of the Fault were assessed and understood. What they found was disturbing, to say the least. While inactive in creating new creatures, the Fault still corrupted any who remained within its boundaries for too long. In fact, most people couldn’t handle the corruptive influence of the place for more than a few minutes, before tearing their compatriots limb from limb, only to end their own life.
Of those who entered on the research mission, only five survived - and even they seemed to be delusional lunatics. They raved about a group of men, blacker than the night sky itself, living in peace and harmony in the center of the Fault, a group of creations who had never before been seen or heard of. Many dismissed their words as the simple-minded ravings of madmen, but some believed what they said…for the most part. Even the most adamant of believers became skeptical at the mention of a white man among the group, who seemed to sit peacefully and quietly, unaffected by the corruption of the Fault’s nothingness. It was not this single, solitary person being able to resist the otherwise irresistible influence that bothered them so much. It was more the identity of the man, whose face had once been household knowledge, whose name had struck fear within the minds of nearly every sentient creature across the Multiverse.
Katana Ashigaru.
A creation of demonic angst and human façade, Ashigaru was a despicable creature whose only purpose in life had been to find the ultimate battle. A warrior who could defeat him. A daunting task, surely, for he had yet to find one who could match blow for blow with him and come out on top. Yet, he’d been unnervingly bent on completing his task. He’d been unable to turn aside from his goal, no matter how much he’d often longed to. Cursed to live until defeated, and cursed to forever wander until he found that one true warrior, he knew his life would be immortality. That he’d be struck with the urge to battle anyone he’d met. Then he found respite from his goal, a place where the compulsion within him died away - and he could once more be himself. Admittedly his powered self, still unable to die until the ultimate warrior came upon him.
The Fault had tried to kill him once, had even sent a group of a thousand warriors to try and overpower him. They had fallen, and now the Fault left him alone. His mind refused to let the voices in, refused to let the corruption flowing through the very essence of the place harm his mind or affect his thoughts. His outright refusal, in conjunction with the full control of his mental capabilities, allowed him to remain within the Fault for extended lengths of time without adverse side affects, and so he only left once every thirty years - to see if that single great warrior had yet risen to power. Now, in 3087, he’d just returned from one such trip. Wherein he’d taken down an entire civilization, built entirely on the merits of their military, single-handedly. Once more he’d returned, disheveled and heartbroken, to the domain of his choosing. Now he was sitting idly along one of the broken asteroids, Sodom and Gomorrah laying next to him, cleaning Widowmaker and preparing its plasma-fusion cells for replacement with several he’d taken from a near-by star system.
His clothing was pretty normal, consisting of only a pair of blue jeans right now, whose cuffs lay against his bare feet. His shirt had been torn and broken in the fray of battle, and his shoes had given out many years ago. So, his muscled torso was clearly visible - not that there was anyone around who could even glimpse his body these days. The last group had fully committed themselves to their expedition, and ended up paying the ultimate price for their foolhardy fervor.
His five foot, eleven inch frame was hunched over the sawn-off plasma shotgun, while the asteroid sat unperturbed by the measly hundred sixty pounds of muscle his body carried on it. His mind was not on fighting, or battles. For now he longed only to rest his body and his mind.
No judge has been discussed, but if the need for one arises we'll come to agreement on who may or may not judge, to prevent idiotic claims of biased.
Profile for Katana Ashigaru: 1.roleplaychat.org/profile.php?userid=124246
------------------------------------------------------------
The broken, scattered columns littered the ground below like fingers reaching for the sky, attempting to find a handhold to pull the giant they belonged to from the ground, wherein he was trapped. They massive stone segments were magnificent, even broken as they were. In their prime, they had formed a massive arena floor where only the strongest of competitors had been allowed to compete, chosen by the benevolent forces of the Multiverse, who brought their champions to the battlefield to determine the distribution of power among them. Outright war had died off in those times, as people had instead chosen this manner of leadership decision. Then everyone had flourished, their lives made better and whole. Then the cataclysm came, and everything changed. The Primary Fault, the exact center-point of all worlds and all realms, exploded in a burst of black fire and magical might. The groundwork of everything shook and broke, and pieces of life were destroyed. A way of life that once existed broke apart and became nothing more than the fitful ramblings of old men and woman, the few who survived the purge that the explosion set loose upon the world.
Creatures never before heard of were born within the Fault, created from the latent malice and malevolence which had come to reside there, and many a brave man and woman lost their lives serving their country and their planet attempting to repel the great beasts. For a thousand years the Primary Fault was an active volcano, a forbidden zone with an ever raging war constantly evolving and fluctuating within. In the end, numbers proved to be useful, and the Confederation of Sentient Beings won out over the Fault’s destructive creations, and the Fault fell back into inactivity. Still, it was declared forbidden - and all attempts to gain access were oft met with war and utter destruction. Still, few people managed to slip inside, never to be seen or heard from again.
In 3576 a group of Scientists were permitted to enter, along with a military escort of a thousand ships and a hundred thousand soldiers. Their findings were to be top secret, until the dangers of the Fault were assessed and understood. What they found was disturbing, to say the least. While inactive in creating new creatures, the Fault still corrupted any who remained within its boundaries for too long. In fact, most people couldn’t handle the corruptive influence of the place for more than a few minutes, before tearing their compatriots limb from limb, only to end their own life.
Of those who entered on the research mission, only five survived - and even they seemed to be delusional lunatics. They raved about a group of men, blacker than the night sky itself, living in peace and harmony in the center of the Fault, a group of creations who had never before been seen or heard of. Many dismissed their words as the simple-minded ravings of madmen, but some believed what they said…for the most part. Even the most adamant of believers became skeptical at the mention of a white man among the group, who seemed to sit peacefully and quietly, unaffected by the corruption of the Fault’s nothingness. It was not this single, solitary person being able to resist the otherwise irresistible influence that bothered them so much. It was more the identity of the man, whose face had once been household knowledge, whose name had struck fear within the minds of nearly every sentient creature across the Multiverse.
Katana Ashigaru.
A creation of demonic angst and human façade, Ashigaru was a despicable creature whose only purpose in life had been to find the ultimate battle. A warrior who could defeat him. A daunting task, surely, for he had yet to find one who could match blow for blow with him and come out on top. Yet, he’d been unnervingly bent on completing his task. He’d been unable to turn aside from his goal, no matter how much he’d often longed to. Cursed to live until defeated, and cursed to forever wander until he found that one true warrior, he knew his life would be immortality. That he’d be struck with the urge to battle anyone he’d met. Then he found respite from his goal, a place where the compulsion within him died away - and he could once more be himself. Admittedly his powered self, still unable to die until the ultimate warrior came upon him.
The Fault had tried to kill him once, had even sent a group of a thousand warriors to try and overpower him. They had fallen, and now the Fault left him alone. His mind refused to let the voices in, refused to let the corruption flowing through the very essence of the place harm his mind or affect his thoughts. His outright refusal, in conjunction with the full control of his mental capabilities, allowed him to remain within the Fault for extended lengths of time without adverse side affects, and so he only left once every thirty years - to see if that single great warrior had yet risen to power. Now, in 3087, he’d just returned from one such trip. Wherein he’d taken down an entire civilization, built entirely on the merits of their military, single-handedly. Once more he’d returned, disheveled and heartbroken, to the domain of his choosing. Now he was sitting idly along one of the broken asteroids, Sodom and Gomorrah laying next to him, cleaning Widowmaker and preparing its plasma-fusion cells for replacement with several he’d taken from a near-by star system.
His clothing was pretty normal, consisting of only a pair of blue jeans right now, whose cuffs lay against his bare feet. His shirt had been torn and broken in the fray of battle, and his shoes had given out many years ago. So, his muscled torso was clearly visible - not that there was anyone around who could even glimpse his body these days. The last group had fully committed themselves to their expedition, and ended up paying the ultimate price for their foolhardy fervor.
His five foot, eleven inch frame was hunched over the sawn-off plasma shotgun, while the asteroid sat unperturbed by the measly hundred sixty pounds of muscle his body carried on it. His mind was not on fighting, or battles. For now he longed only to rest his body and his mind.