The Black Dragon - Black Dragon R3 - Wrong Number
[Toggle Names]Description: Following the leads on Duke Burkoff and the Southtown Syndicate, Szabolc and his men approach the shipping vessel Pacific Yoke, seeking to find clues on Darkstalker trade. Instead they find Grant. Whoops.
[GRANT]
Twilight falls over the Southtown docks, but harbormasters direct tireless (allegedly) shifts of workers loading and unloading at all hour of the night, it's only order of magnitude that varies with the daylight. Floodlights scream illumination in inconsistent but effective blasts across much of the area, and the superfreighter that the Raven Guard had flagged suspect, subject to search and possible censure or seizure related to the ongoing chaos in the city, is no different in that respect. The gangways of the //Pacific Yoke// are deployed, broad and bare. There's room to drive a vehicle up there, if one so desired. The ship's cranes are silent, however. Its workers, vanished as if in mid-task. Here and there there's a forgotten cup of half-finished coffee, a workstation still lit, a motor still humming. But the noise profile dims on that final approach, far from silent, but notably quieter; /far/ notably emptier.
~~ 7 minutes earlier. ~~
"They're coming here, surveillence confirms."
"Stand down the site; evacuate all security operations, lock down the ship."
"Sir? We're not going to fight? Are they sending someone to--"
"Our orders are Protocol C. Do you really want to explain to whoever shows up that we're behind schedule?"
Less than two minutes later, everyone is packing up to go home. Sixty seconds past that, and only stragglers haven't cleared the nearby lots, an expanse of asphalt now nearly empty.
~~
Nothing but vault doors would bar the Raven Guard's way, those could take some time to breach-- and automated security would likely be a concern aboard the allegedly hostile, seemingly abandoned vessel. Its deck is a maze of cargo containers stacked, from the perspective of an on-foot interloper, sky high. Sealed bulkheads are far from impassable for the operatives, but the path to the ship's bridge, a walkway of reinforced steel and glass containing the freighter's nerve center, is conspicously open, entirely clear. Solving a maze is a path of least resistance challenge, isn't it? While the rest of the ship remains suitably lit, the corridors approaching the bridge, the entire breadth of the construct itself, is utterly dark. Only light filtering in through the windows from beyond, down the hallways from before illuminate its features.
A lone figure stands within, nearly at the center, cloaked in the shadows. They do no more to hide his mass than the finely tailored suit he wears. A beam of light cast across the overwatch strikes a dully gleaming shadow across a keenly glossed, black horn that seems to rise, one of a pair, from the giant's skull.
[BELA]
****************************
"They are saying Protocol C."
That's the report from the raven-masked technician, listening in on the old soviet era radio listening. The steel-blue eyed commander looks out from the security tower at the Pacific Yoke. It's previous occupants were bound and gagged. But it looked like they took too long. There are seven men in the tower. Six are clad in the crimson-armored body suits of feathery scale, with clawed gauntlets and raven-like gas masks. All but the technician is at parade rest. The seventh is a silver-haired man in his late middle ages. He body is narrow and fit, his shoulders broad, and stands at a clean two meters tall. He is garbed in the commanders garb of the Raven Guard, a teal-blue armored coat covering his whole body, all the way to his heeled boots of gold and steel straps. His arms are peppered in scaled plate, the feathered motif typical of Raven Guardsmen. His legs are similarly armored, though only the faintest hints of this can been seen with the longcoat in place. A singular black tie hangs from his neck, with the white collared shirt giving a formal air to his armor. A massive cloak, studded with gold buttons, carries around him, the exterior silver white, while the interior is rich crimson. His face is lean and narrow, with a long chin, high cheekbones, and cold blue-steel eyes. A silver mustache garbs over his red lips, which never so much as hint a smile.
"They are laying a trap then."
His tone is deep, with a gravelly air of command that rumbles deep in his lungs. They had all watched the site clear out. It was dangerous territory now. The technician doesn't respond. But the aide de camp does, one of them speaking up. "Then we withdraw?" Szabolc shakes his head. "We stay together, and walk in." "Not envelop, sir?" Szabolc shakes his head again. "We've been spotted; spreading out will only mean it's 1 to multiple engagements. We stay together, and then spread."
****************************
There would be a tap, tap, tap sound, to reveal their arrival on the deck. Bypassing the vault doors was... uncomfortably easy. For who it was uncomfortable for, however, was not clear. No security was tripped; and the speed was almost as lock and key. Navigating the maze would be a slow, dangerous process. Their movement are equally alien; none choose to walk. Leaping and tumbling, crawling on the walls, they creep as a pack of six between the cargo containers, high and low. The only person that strides, is the steel-eyed man in the rear, running silently with his plain, cast sword in the scabbard. The formation is fluid, but exists; 2 leading as scouts, 3 keeping the core, one lingering with Szabolc. They wind and wind, scanning, scanning, Looking for the core target.
And looking for the ambush.
They slow down at the walk up to the bridge. Touching their sides, the six guardsmen activate their night vision. It's Cheap 1st generation night vision, embedded in their gas masks, casts a static green image across the layout of the corridors. They were moving together now, thrusting towards the bridge. Crawling on the walls, the floors, leaping from floor to ceiling, and back and forth. Faster and faster, closer and closer. Outpacing the commander...
Until they reach that center.
The six don't press any hard; spreading out in a semicircle around the... the thing. The figure. A darkstalker? They pull away, claws swaying and the strange dance coming from the mercenaries. Waiting for the arrival of Szabolc... who despite lacking the night vision of his companions, seemed to have a better vision of who was here. "A lone warrior, guarding the prize within." He growls deeply, staring at the horned figure.
"Are you man, or monster?"
[GRANT]
If it's a trap, it seems a poor one, at a glance. The mastermind's plot that is Protocol C sees the automated security stand down even as the Guard's approach is watched by a myriad of active cameras-- at least, until the operatives disable or hijack those, as well. Time taken to breach the ship's holds and cargo containers individually yields little of interest-- predictably, anticlimactically, the ship is full of trade goods. There's a fortune in electronics aboard, perhaps most notably, but moving it is a logistical nightmare... hence the superfreighter.
The mountainous figure at the nerve center of the vessel is patient; but truth be told Grant doesn't have to wait long. How, exactly, he got here at all in such a timeframe is an outstanding mystery; but Darkstalkers are known to teleport, right?
The massive man is knelt facing the aft of the ship, largely facing away from the encroaching soldiers... until he rises even as he's addressed. Alone. Trapped. Unthreatened. Perhaps it -is- a trap. The Martyr of Might scoffs in mirthless monosyllable. "The prize within." It's derisive; another man would laugh.
"Your cause is not furthered here." Condescension is replaced with seemingly inappropriate, perhaps uncomfortable confidence-- utter certitude. As Grant turns to face the commander sidelong, his suit does little to conceal the corded muscle beneath, every motion considered a flex for most. As his head turns to profile, the demonic visage is more plainly a mask-- that, or he's otherwise quite human-proportioned. Relative to scale. "You hunt the Darkstalkers, their petty Baron, and the Duke above. But the truth is your problem is the compromises they have made for those they fear are their betters, foes behind fools." It's at once informative and enigmatic; very kind, really.
"Yet hear you instead provoke a hydra. I have only loathing for your prey; and I am but one of the multitude too mighty to suffer /fools/." Were it not for the ornate mask the Martyr of Might wears, he would soundly punctuate the disdain with expectorant. "Your mission already failed the moment you set foot on this ship." It's likely quite willful that Grant answers only unasked questions.
[BELA]
Szabolc could feel the meaning behind the words.
The guardsmen cannot help but take a step back, the weight of the man's presence is overbearing. They still keep their stances, low and spread out, claws sweeping and swaying as they ready to spring at a moment's notice. But Szabolc watches, and unstraps his blade. Pulling out the cold-cast sword, he looks at the powerful figure. They did not come for goods. No. They came for secrets. And yet, Grant's words tested his resolve. His cause was not furthered here. It was a truthful statement, wasn't it. That is why they are all gone. This wasn't a trap. It was a message. Szabolc knew it in his bones. But the will of the Patriarch made it clear.
He would tolerate nothing less, than to see blood paid to confirm the truth.
"Traitors to humanity must be exposed." Szabolc states defiantly, trying to conceal his uncertainty with a flare of bravado. "And if you know we are after Duke Burkoff... then it only emboldens us to uncover the truth. How many more traitors are there? The city is in danger. We will know how far the infection had spread... and deep it has come. The Patriarch does not care if he has waken the hydra; it is just another monster to slay. We will test to see if you are man, or monster then." There is a flicker of hesitation. He extends the blade, pointing it at Grant. "Begin." It was a small command.
But the impact was sufficient enough.
Three of the six suddenly surge in; two leaping in high, a third tumbling in low. It was a coordinated attack; the two up high would bring their claws down, attempting to rend up top. The third? Would attempt to roll past Grant's legs, swiping at his hamstrings as he goes past. The other three would be repositioning around the flanks, rotating around in tandem with their attacks. All while Szabolc stands back, his eyes beginning to glow indigo.
Assisting with the coordination of his men.
COMBATSYS: Grant has started a fight here on the right meter side.
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|-------\-------\0 Grant
COMBATSYS: Egy Squad has joined the fight here on the left meter side.
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Egy Squad 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Grant
COMBATSYS: Szabolc has joined the fight here on the left meter side.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Grant
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Egy Squad 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Szabolc assists Egy Squad.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Grant
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Egy Squad 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Grant blocks Egy Squad's Black Feather Assault.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Grant
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Egy Squad 0/-------/-------|
[GRANT]
"Humanity." Grant scoffs the word, like it's all that's sour in the wide, varied world. "Humanity is in itself treacherous; weak." The Martyr of Might casts judgement without reservation, long ago willfully outcast from such trappings and duties as those that define the Raven Guard... divested from those held close by most, in truth. "Your very society is corrupt, consumed by avarice and petty ego. No crusade will save you."
As soon as the commander's blade came free, it became clear enough where the exchange is to end. It's no surprise to the enigmatic titan-- foolishness is all too common in any age of mankind. The monster of meat subtly tenses, gaze burning with indigo fire behind the demonic visage obscuring his human features. "There is only meeting the future beyond your inevitable failure."
The Raven Guard move in, and Grant shifts abruptly to meet them. There is no flourish, no obvious grace or eloquence to the Martyr of Might's style-- each movement is utilitarian, direct, and intensely powerful. One trunklike arm sweeps aside the pair that descend from on high, claws raking audibly across mass so hardened they draw little more than the red lines of an angry housecat-- painful but far from productive. It's a braced shin that meets the low striker as Grant turns smoothly to orient himself between the leaping pair's landing points.
The Martyr of Might lashes out first with his right, muscle rippling through a frame fueled by a vast chasm of dark might... and no shortage of mass, driving a metaphorically steel-clad fist forcefully in for the first soldier's skull in a reaving cross, descending from the Martyr's great height. His left follows around with an efficient, brutal twist back the opposite direction, stepping in on the second operative and seeking to, quite literally, shatter the soldier's ribcage along the right side with a hammering uppercut from that opposite fist.
The entire scenario was, indeed, a message. This faction offered no opposition to the Raven Guard-- no objection to the pursuit of Duke's operations... and his connections. The second, important bit, noting that intentional past tense, was the unavoidable catastrophe of poking this particular hornet's nest. It's that point which Grant now seeks to see rather literally hammered home.
COMBATSYS: Grant successfully hits Egy Squad with Gou Retsu-Shou.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Grant
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Egy Squad 0/-------/=======|
[BELA]
It's like a wrecking ball.
As the initial assault slices in, it is met with the stoic wall against the claws. They all leap away, trying to slip away, trying to escape. But the problem was the strength, the speed. Grant explodes at the first guardsman, smashing against his head before he can dive away; he is smashed into an electric panel, forced to roll off in suffering unconsciousness. The second is then chained, in the same escape, right into his ribcage. The armor fails against the raw power, sending him hurling away into the wall. In but seconds, six become four. Szabolc watches in horror, as the true power is unleashed. But he does not join in.
It is not the way of the Raven Guard.
"Adjust formation! Magpie Maurader!" He calls out, sweeping his blade at command. The third that gets away tumbles desperately, as the three remaining boosts themselves up. One falls to their knees, and preparing his hands, launches one, then two into the air. The duo flips like acrobats, launching off the ceiling into a pair of diving swipe-bys, coming in from Grant's left and right. Szabolc watches across with the monument of declaration. His brow was furrowed, partially in concentration, partially from disbelief. "I've come for secrets..." He mutters.
"And I get philosophy?"
COMBATSYS: Szabolc assists Egy Squad.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Grant
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Egy Squad 0/-------/=======|
COMBATSYS: Grant dodges Egy Squad's Magpie Marauder.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Grant
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Egy Squad 0/-------/-======|
[GRANT]
The bridge reverberates with the shockwave of each bone-crushing, cartilege-pulverizing impact, a distant cousin of thunder, the percussion familiar indeed to the Martyr of Might. Each beat is precise, driven, each resonance speaking volumes in its simplicity and mastery, a timpani in crescendo of violence. No bass backing beat accompanying the action in this concerto, Grant is proactive, setting the pace. Despite his mass, he slips from between the renewed onslaught in a blur of motion that matches the air-reaving alacrity of his offensive strikes, all but gliding to reset his wide stance sidelong, facing the squad, his back to the wall of windows.
In a more optimistic timeline for the Raven Guard, this might be called trapped. Here, it's simply an improvised fortification for an ongoing struggle. "I told you your war imminently threatened to spiral beyond its purpose." The Martyr of Might rightly observes, coldly resolute. The most important secret.
"You were warned that against such varied fronts, your crusade faces only oblivion." The light filtering into the bridge seems to dim everywhere at once, the metal superstructure creaking in angry protest as an otherworldly surge of energy fills the area, centered on Grant. "But you are not in control of your path, are you?" For once, rather than addressing the commander directly, Grant sweeps the still-standing soldiers as he speaks. "Warned of your doom or no, your mission is to carry on." Once again, the Martyr of Might snorts with utmost derision.
"And you deem to judge anyone /else/ traitors to humanity." The aura around the titan blooms to a feverish bonfire of dark energy, the outline of a raging torch. Fissures crack the reinforced glass along nearly the entire length of the bridge corridor, one of the nearest panels erupting inwards in a shower of safety-shattered shards, glittering in the dull illumination of the outside floods.
COMBATSYS: Grant gathers his will.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\1 Grant
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Egy Squad 0/-------/-======|
[BELA]
Its moments like this, the practice of commander and soldier was useful for the Raven Guard.
Unengaged from the direct fighting, Szabolc bears the verbal assault from Grant, leaving the more savage physical beating to the men. Not exactly a fair trade, but an important one. The derision and raw brutal loathing of humanity boiled out from the man. And as he humiliated the dual efforts of the Guardsmen, the matter of morale sits on his shoulders alone. His heart would bear the mortal wounds, not his men. When Grant stands fast, drawing in that power as he lays truth after truth like a broadside of a man o war, the two in reserve begin their approach as the two attackers break away. "Carrion Crows." He states subtly, as he turns his side at Grant. The pair attack, as the commander responds.
"I am an old man, and I have heard this many times before."
The two Guardsmen split up, one tumbling low, the second leaping high. "Monsters, in the shape of men, cannot escape the sheer guilt and shame of the mistakes that brought them to this moment." The leaper falls short, and the tumbler launches up, a switch up. "So they disguise it, with a mirror. To place guilt, to place shame, to judge that judgement is the highest of hypocrisies." The one leaps over Grant, or tries to, as the one low surges up, attempting one, two elbow smashes into Grant's ribs. "And those who wield faith and resolution must learn to endure the swords of logic and facts!" He steps forward once, clutching his gauntlet up as the second Guardsmen slips behind Grant, attempting to slam Grant back with a should throw into the control panel. "I see through your veil! Who are you protecting?" His voice gets soft, a flicker of empathy.
"Is it family?"
COMBATSYS: Szabolc assists Egy Squad.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\1 Grant
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Egy Squad 0/-------/-======|
COMBATSYS: Grant interrupts Carrion Crows from Egy Squad with Kyou Chou-Jin EX.
*KNOCKED AWAY*
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\0 Grant
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ <
Egy Squad 1/----===/=======|
[GRANT]
For a moment, Grant's massive chest rumbles. It might even be silent laughter. If it is... it hardly bodes well for the biting retort hitting its mark. "I hold no illusions, fool; but I am not the prey you hunt." Rather than evade, rather than defend, the Martyr of Might erupts -into- the onslaught of the squad, a clawhammer masquerading as a right fist ripping skyward as Grant's entire weight erupts behind it, launching himself, and far more violently launching the Raven Guard attacking him into the air. He smashes through them both with a sickening, crunching impact, body armour little against the titan's strength.
The chaotic, swarming collision nearly hits the ceiling, indeed on soldier ricochets off of it, even as Grant abruptly reverses his momentum and //impacts// the bridge below like a mortar, launching the broken Guard outwards as an echoing roar reverberates through the suffering superstructure. The Martyr of Might draws a deep breath and rises, seemingly tireless; thus far, all but invulnerable.
"My past is not a thing I fear; I face it in triumph." Grant shakes his head, studying Szabolc through twin pits of fire. "You do not understand." Kain would have some pity for that. Grant shows only detached disapproval. "Even if you were somehow strong enough to win here, you would be no less doomed."
[BELA]
Ice stares back into burning flames.
His men would be spend long in the infirmary. Or worse, a short one. Every blow against them, was a blow to him. As Grant explodes, the two are sent like ragdolls across. And worse, for a moment, the two remaining hesitate. That's four downed mercenaries, and three clean hits from the stranger. The will to retreat was growing strong. Szabolc sneers.
"He says no illusions, even as he wears a a mask!"
The retort is enough to steel the morale, and the last two begin the final approach. Szabolc readies himself, leaning his sword back behind him.
"Mortuus Corvus."
The duo begins to accelerate, tumbling low and fast, from opposite angles. Szabloc extends a finger at Grant. "Bear wisdom from a dark lord once slain by our ancestors." The duo leaps up in a disjointed fashion, attempting to knock Grant into the air with their rising swipes. Now, indigo energy was building up, leaving long contrails as they shoot to the ceiling.
"Men are not more than suffering heaps of secrets."
Rebounding off the ceiling, the pair make another slash by, and another from below. "Know well that there is no truth on our crusade, but only a lie so beautiful, that it will save the world." Another slice by, as long energy trails follow. "And is not only Duke that will serve to be sacrificed for it." The assault would come to a close as one swipes by, and the other would attempt to grab Grant from behind, to turn him upside down, and bring him to the ground in an aerial piledriver. Like an izuna drop, without the spinning. Szabolc grips his handle tight, as he prepares himself. But his last words are soft.
"But we are not only seeking enemies in this crusade."
COMBATSYS: Szabolc assists Egy Squad.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\0 Grant
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Egy Squad 1/----===/=======|
COMBATSYS: Grant interrupts Mortuus Corvus from Egy Squad with Ma-Heki.
-@- Dazing Hit! -@-
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|=======\===----\1 Grant
[ \\ <
Egy Squad 0/-------/-======|
[GRANT]
"That is what I already said." Grant observes drily. Mankind is a treacherous mass. That is why one must rise above it. Apparently, Szabolc has come back around to it at last. Color the Martyr of Might impressed; after a fashion.
The pair of soldiers grit their teeth, set their jaws, and press on-- and this time, they find some success. The blades draw deep lines of blood, tearing long lines in the jacket and shirt Grant wears, crossing his arms and chest.
As they reverse their momentum, however, the Martyr of Might reclaims his personal space through the deceptively simple art of maximum flexing. His muscles tense, his energy focuses, and his stance widens, a self-contained eruption of oppositional meat that shreds the rest of the mountain's upper garb to tattered bits.
It sunders not only the suit, but the soldiers, their impact suddenly launching them backwards as if hit by a locomotive, rather than launching into a brick wall. "Duke is an egotistical tool; little more than a liability to the wise. You are no less a fool if you think he is the goal of your crusade." Grant brushes the dusted remnants of cloth from his impeccable musculature.
"You want the beasts he's allied with; the madmen behind them." The lecturing tone remains, the certitude that seems presumptive... but may prove hard to argue with. "They may already be beyond you. Your lie will not save the world, any more than any of the beautiful lies before and besides it. The new age is an age of truth; but your folly is irrelevent." Grant cracks his neck, re-sets his stance. "I will break you." Quite literally, as resolute as the operatives clearly are, particularly their unflinching, possibly sadistic commander.
[BELA]
"It is not my lie."
That is the response, as the last of his men is sent tumbling like toys from the chest. They do not get knocked off the bridge, merely making their imprints in the steel interior. There is no more fight left in them. "I serve a stronger. And you do as well." He lower down. Did they agree? After all, humanity was wretched sinners. And none more wretched than the Raven Guard itself. But why is there no despair amongst them? "Who is it?"
And Szabolc moves.
Descending upon the masked fighter, he sweeps in. A calculated effort. Not his neck, his body, but his arms. Almost daring him to guard against it, to defend against pure iron with mere flesh. Szabolc swings around into an overhead strike.
There is no sword.
An indigo light builds within, as the shape of the blade winds and twists. The edge is gone, as it spreads out into a hundred thin threads, their tips curled into hooks. He destroyed his armor. And Szabolc would rend the writhing mess of clawing, probing threads upon his hide.
And flay a pound of flesh from his arm as he draws back.
COMBATSYS: Egy Squad takes no action.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|=======\===----\1 Grant
COMBATSYS: Egy Squad can no longer fight.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|=======\===----\1 Grant
COMBATSYS: Grant blocks Szabolc's Quick Strike.
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Szabolc 0/-------/-------|=======\===----\1 Grant
[GRANT]
"Then you are an even graver fool." Grant observes simply of the correction, bracing himself against the sudden attack. It's unconventional, new to the titanic crimeboss, and he seeks to match his flesh against the armament quite willfully-- and successfully. Paired, tensed arms align with the initial stroke, a sweeping motion brushing the myriad blades aside in a spatter of blood and stinging impact amidst the violent, forceful defense.
Szabolc does not get his pound of flesh, but perhaps at least a half ounce thereof, as the Martyr of Might darkly intones, "I serve a cause; I endure for a great truth." Grant explicitly reiterates, "We stood down here because we have no objection to your previous attacks, or apparent intent." Grant shakes his head. "But it seems you are too... typical to accomplish even that." You //normal//, everday //human//, says Grant. And it does, indeed, ring like a deep condemnation.
Even as he speaks, Grant steps forward, twisting his right side to align in profile with Szabolc before a tree trunk of a right leg snaps up in a side thrust that could breach a bulkhead, squarely aligned with the commander's solar plexus. "Tell whoever pulls your leash that this was a terrible mistake, that your lie needs others to survive, much less end this crusade. Pray we forgive your ignorance in the balance."
COMBATSYS: Szabolc blocks Grant's Medium Kick.
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Szabolc 0/-------/------=|=======\====---\1 Grant
[BELA]
Without the guardsmen to bear the blows, it was much harder for Szabolc to separate the words from the fighting.
Raking against the arm, taking only a fleshwound. The tendrils draw back, reforming into a single solid shape. His cloak whipping, the massive crime boss grinding him down with his nihilistic condemnations. Each one draws blood, each one hammers on his own fears and misgivings. And yet, he clings to his statement. A mirror. Every word into, every word into himself. The masked man was now stepping in with a kick.
And the sword shifts again.
Drawing back, the kick is met with a brick of iron, as it wraps around the commander's arm like a shield. It was as solid as it needed to be, as mallable as Szabolc wanted. But a mere buckler isn't going to dead stop the raw power of a man who obliterated the Raven Guard. Underneath, there is a bruise, as Szabolc just barely stays on his feet. He was, at the very least, stronger than the guardsmen. His retorts were short and to the point, he had no space to think.
"We."
Szabolc repeats back. He wasn't looking at Grant in the eyes now. No. He was focused on something else. Somewhere on his body. Building towards it, dismantling towards it. There was a shift in tone now. One hand was up, still reeling from the full force of the kick. The other drops down to his waist, within his cloak. He springs back, as he hand whips around. And from below, an axe is hurled up, into a parabolic arc. Rising up, nearly hitting the ceiling, before dropping down, aiming for Grant's shoulder. A strange attack. But one that allows Szabolc to adjust his footing.
Maybe he should have used the holy water.
COMBATSYS: Szabolc successfully hits Grant with Calling From Heaven.
- Power hit! -
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Szabolc 0/-------/----===|=======\======-\1 Grant
[GRANT]
The kickback applied to Szabolc is ample, but not as prolific as Grant would have liked-- it leaves him open to the follow through, the axe's odd trajectory compensating for the titan's alacrity as he dodges his substantial bulk -into- its path, the blade burying itself deeply into one broad shoulder. The Martyr of Might lifts one meaty hand to the axe haft and rips it free with deceptive precision, unconcerned with the bloodflow freed by such a wound.
The weapon is tossed aside with a clatter, and once more the bridge itself begins to rumble. Shattered glass vibrates a skittering dance across the floor, a console shorts out in a sputter of sparks, and a yawning maw of dark energy coalescing forth from the heart of the cosmos centers on Grant, his injuries scabbing over all but immediately as he focuses his efforts. "Yes, tool. We. /I/ am not the strongest." Which Szabolc half-correctly predicted-- but definitely reinforces just how Bad an Idea this attack may have been.
"Merely mightier than //your best//!!" Grant raises his voice for the first time, not in outrage or anger, but intensity and power as his own reserves spike, nearly boil over, channeled into his own unwavering will to fight; to overcome. A bloom of indigo flame ghosts around the titan, echoing his disciplined resilience.
COMBATSYS: Grant gathers his will.
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Szabolc 0/-------/----===|=======\======-\1 Grant
[BELA]
Blood.
The axe is tossed down, as Szabolc carefully studies the building injury. It slowed him down to a stop. That's what he needed. As he draws in the torrent of energy, the swordsmen steps back, letting the shield melt away back into a weapon form. "And I, the same." Szabolc states, eyes cold. "Your strength is mere candlelight to the monument of fire that is the Patriarch. I am merely his right arm. We all are actors to his will."
And he draws in the indigo energy.
Building energy, he watches Grant cooly, the shape of the weapon reverting back into the shape of a broadsword. He holds it up before, him, letting the power draws in. "If your master is guilty, then his guilt will be exposed, unmasked. But if he is innocent..." Szabolc states, as the indigo energy cascades over his shoulders.
"... Then duty demands an alliance is founded."
COMBATSYS: Szabolc gathers his will.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Szabolc 0/-------/=======|=======\======-\1 Grant
[GRANT]
"You still do not understand." Grant laments with little sympathy amidst the deeply rumbling tones. "I have no master, and any man who claims one fails to understand the truth of Purpose. For all the ages of man, our potential has been //squandered//." Grant squares his stance as if taking a defensive posture, a half-stride back from Szabolc's answering efforts.
"Even the mightiest pyre is swayed by my strength." The Martyr of Might asserts with some confidence; he may not be the most powerful being active in the world today, but he's comfortable with his ability to squarely punch any demigod or demon in the face and make them remember it.
"Alliance demands common cause; we have no more interest in your beautiful lie than in your justice." In the same instant, the Martyr of Might is airborne, nearly smacking his skull into the ceiling overhead. Rather than holding back, he sorts his own unconventional attack angle, erupting like a missile, one extended, braced foot the warhead as he descends sharply, suddenly, with cataclysmic force at the preparing Szabolc.
"You stand to gain a better understanding of your extant foe, here-- or innumerable new adversaries in your crusade!!" It was never a negotiation. Pulling out his own capable security and initially standing down was all the compromise the Heinlein organization had to offer the Raven Guard; in Kain's own words, it was already more than enough.
COMBATSYS: Grant knocks away Szabolc with Messou Hisetsu.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Szabolc 1/=======/=======|=======\=======\1 Grant
[BELA]
Szabolc struggles to take the hit.
There is no parry, no shield. He turns his shoulder in, as Grant rises, and descends. It is like a missile hits him, his armor far from sufficient to mitigate the hit. He flies away, turning as he collides into the wall. The same force that broke the guardsmen, leaves him on the ground, prone. Stunned. Something was broken. Something was bleeding. He coughs feebly, blood coming from his mouth. The old man groans.
"A better understanding indeed."
Szabolc rises up. His ancient bones ache, his body burns. He staggers, leaning his elbow against the bulwark of the bridge. It was a miracle he could even stand. He might be able to take one more hit like that. Might. He was barely able to stand. Groaning, he steadies his feet, turning back towards Grant. No Master. And yet, he was following something. An equal? A brother? He himself knew well the feeling. "Your strength conceals a weakness." He gasps, as he turns. The sword was melting away. And then, as blood trickles from his chin, he says two words.
"Bullet wound."
And he charges, clearing the gap in only a flash, his sword spiraling into an amorphous swirl of iron...
COMBATSYS: Grant blocks Szabolc's Invitation From A Crazed Moon.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////// ]
Szabolc 0/-------/----===|>>>>>>>\>>>>>>>\2 Grant
He drives it into Grant's abdomen.
It was too far. He couldn't get in close enough. But as he drives the swirling mass of iron, into the skin, there is only a moment. Grant could feel it writhing like worms, digging into him, digging up. Digging up towards the wound...
[GRANT]
Behind the crimson and black gloss of his demonic mask, Grant frowns sternly, tensing in a quake of agitation. It's not the unconventional, all-out onslaught he faces-- that, the Martyr of Might turns into, much like Szabolc moments before.
The mountainous man squares one shoulder, he braces one arm, and even as the multitude of razor tendrils swarm around it and past it, seeking to penetrate to his core, Grant twists his arm up in the punishing whip-blades, and surges forward. It seems a single stride is utilized in closing the span separating the commander and the Martyr, so abrupt is Grant threatening Szabolc's guard.
"Our scars are testament to our ability to //surpass//!!" It's a difficult assertion to argue with, partly because the towering titan drives his left fist out in a car crash of a straight, the knuckles of the arm still torn by tendrils of metal and energy delivering it back to Szabolc manyfold. "You overstep your /business/, underling." The commander of the Raven Guard may pay for that with his facial integrity.
COMBATSYS: Grant dazes Szabolc with Medium Punch!
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////// ]
Szabolc 1/------=/=======|>>>>>>>\>>>>>>>\2 Grant
[BELA]
He almost has the critical strike-
And the world's revolving.
The blow knocks him away, the swordsman pulled away. The iron tendrils actually break; the droplets trailing after him in indigo light. Szabolc crumples into a heap. The words of Grant rattling in his head, like a pulsating clot, boiling in his brain. He cannot see the bridge, he cannot see his men. He can sense them, unseen senses able to track only vaguely. His weapon returns in complete. He is on all fours, stunned, his sword to the ground.
But Szabolc rises again.
He's staggering, his mind reeling. But it's decades of experience, that extends his sword out instinctively; it becomes a spear, a polearm, as he staggers back at Grant. The balance of power is inescapable. But as he vaults through the air, he launches off the pole. Leaping to close the distance again, he unleashes a doubled pair of kicks. There is no sense, there is no meaning. There is only the fight.
And his Patriarch's hollow crusade.
COMBATSYS: Grant interrupts Nothing To Lose from Szabolc with Majin Haten-Dan EX.
*KNOCKED AWAY*
[ < > /////////////// ]
Szabolc 2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|>>>>>>-\-------\0 Grant
[GRANT]
Decades of experience. A stalwart mandate. The men are quite alike; yet could scarcely be more different. Szabolc reels, and Grant waits. It's not a gentle patience, but the stalking calm of a predator with wounded quarry. There is simply no cause to rush. The Raven Guard's dutiful leader comes right back to Grant.
"I warned you--" At first glance, the Martyr of Might's answer is a simple side kick of impressive altitude, easily snapping through and beyond the average skull's height. It's a singular, brutal stroke that's paralyzed and killed more than one of the titan's adversaries. Then there was the decapitation incident...
With that striking foot, however, comes a veritable geyser of dark, blue-edged chi, a ragged wave of energy that consumes Svabolc mid-charge, his leaping kick colliding with a very grounded answering one, even as his entire form is enveloped in punishing, frigid energy, tearing through him physically, sundering him spiritually, sending the commander hurtling right back into that reinforced, long suffering framework of the ship's bridge. "You had lost before you //began//!"
[BELA]
It was one kick too many.
The kick intercepts his leap, and Szabolc lets out a choke and a crack, as the initial blow stops it dead. That would have been enough. But it is the explosion of chi that truly sends him over, blasting through his armor and soul, blowing him into the panel with an electrical charge. Jolted, and sparking, he collapses down. Reaching behind his cloak, he forces up into a stand, as if he didn't realize what happen. He draws back a blades cross, ready to throw it. "I will not... I will not...."
But the cross falls from his hand, as he collapses forward.
He is not unconcious, no. He is alive, and awake. But as he falls to his knees, his sword limp to his side, he is forced to bow low on one knee. He has a broken neck. But his body does not realize it. Indigo energy flows through him, ebbing through him. Life. Life was keeping himself together. "I will not..." He repeats again. His body was broken. His spirit quelled. All seven, defeated.
Then what else was keeping him intact?
COMBATSYS: Szabolc takes no action.
> /////////////// ]
|>>>>>>-\-------\0 Grant
COMBATSYS: Szabolc can no longer fight.
> /////////////// ]
|>>>>>>-\-------\0 Grant
Log created on 21:09:03 05/11/2020 by Sven, and last modified on 22:12:11 05/13/2020.