Description: At last, you've found the vampire's castle. Not all is as it seems, however. While many other castles--especially ones with a reputation of death and angered spirits such as this--are desolate and barren of life, the halls of Zeltzereich Castle are bright and well kept, with many servants cleaning and maintaining every surface with the utmost class and skill. However, few will talk to you, and you're left on your own to find your way. Ascending to the top of the highest tower, you find the vampire's feasting hall, a macabre combination of bedroom, throne room, and ballroom. At its center, a well-protected blood gem glows brightly in a highly ornamented stand, and has cast an enchantment over the area. Even as you enter the hall, your head feels woozy. The worn combat fatigues and uniforms you may have been wearing alike slip away, fabric shifting with each breath into a more...appropriate dress to suit the master's tastes. The ball is starting, and spellbound ladies from every corner of Romania have gathered, frenetically dancing amongst themselves for the right to be the vampire noble's next concubine. It's hard to resist the spell, but if you can, it might not matter anyway. Many of the gathered are beginning to get downright violent with one another, and it's hard to tell friend from spellbound foe. A grand bloodbath is about to ensue.
(but the answer is no.)"
Lightning flashes admist the clouds in the overcast sky bringing stacatto bursts of pale light into existence that illuminate patches of the dim stone hallway leading through the dark and dreary castle. Half concealed by the heavy black clouds that linger overhead a full moon casts its emphemeral light upon the courtyard several stories below but rather than cast away the eerie atmosphere it only serves to amplify it, creating a multitude of grim shadows that seem to shift and move when one casts their gaze astray. An ominous peal of thunder inevitably follows the searing bolts out of the sky sending a cacophanous boom that reverberates through the ancient stones.
Despite herself, Franziska suppresses a sudden shudder of apprehension at the gloomy atmosphere, turning her gaze away from the towering dusty window and the shifting landscape below. A hand goes up to the brim of her cap, adjusting it on her brow in a fit of nervous energy as she begins to move towards the far end of the passage. Though the castle looked rather sizable from the outside, she's certain that the interior is somehow bigger than it should be. For three hours now she's been traversing the empty corridors and forgotten rooms of this relic, ever moving upwards towards the lone light in the tower above, but the only signs of life encountered thus far have been dull-eyed servants that failed to respond to any attempts at communication.
Narrowing her eyes, Franziska focuses on the goal ahead - a light at the end of the passage. That light is both a source of relief and concern as it means she is nearing her goal; however, it's been atleast ten minutes of walking that took her this far and somehow the light doesn't seem that much closer at all. Whether this is some trick of smoke and mirrors or an effect of the uncharacteristic nervousness plaguing her she doesn't know but turning back doesn't seem any more appealing at this point so, with caution foremost in mind, she trudges onwards.
Intrusive gloom and dread are hardly the stuff of Jira's nightmares, every step through the winding and foreign corridors bestow a giddy excitement in the woman. Almost as if a trip like this were a dream flourishing into more, her hands simply cannot stay still despite her best efforts, even tucking them underneath her arms only reveals how decidedly twitchy her trigger fingers are. Each step furthers her small adventure in the castle, but perhaps it is due to the lifelessly quiet and out of the way nature of the servants that she does not notice them or outright ignores them.
Walking ahead and blazing a trail through the winding corridors and staircases before she hits a halting point. For no matter how many stairs she climbs in this one particular passage, she doesn't seem to be getting any closer to the exit before her. Turning her head in a curious glance back down tells the opposite story, she's definately getting further ahead -somewhere- with this staircase and thus she continues on.
"There's a yellow rose in Texas, That I am going to see~"
The song lifts through the gloomy halls, creeping upon the german woman that was in turn stalking the castle. The singing, however, is not haunting, nor ghostly. It is warm and bright, holding strong against the night, and bringing with it an inner light. "Nobody else could miss her, Not half as much as me~" It continues, with the tap tap tap of boots stepping along. Soon, rounding the bend behind Franziska, was a very familiar face to the agent.
Lightning Spangles.
Lightning Spangles is not in her typical cowgirl set up, however. Where red vest and blue jeans once were, there was something much more... seasonal. She was now clad in a silk dress of light blue against navy blue, dressed as a saloon girl. Long, sheer stockings run up her legs, while a pair of white and blue boots clad her feet. Her top is bound in a tight corset with ample support, laced up from the back, and studded with cast iron buttons in the front. A blue ribbon with a small amethyst is wrapped around her neck, and white bridal gauntlets clad her hands. Finishing her 'new' look is a great peacock feather which hangs from her hair.
"Excuse me pardner!" She drawls, lifting up her dress slightly as she approaches "Why hello there! I'm Lightning Spangles, the All-American hero! And I just can't seem to find my crew? See, I came here with my staff, and we had a whole dealie planned out to impress the count here! But I can't seem." She stares off into the distance, before looking down at the outfit she was wearing.
"Oh, when did I start wearing this."
Smiling warmly, she looks back over at Franziska. "Why Howdy there! I'm Jezebel, but you can call me Lightning Spangles! It's the strangest thing. We all were filming through this spooky castle, and we found this very strange bedroom! You really ought to visit it, it is amazing! And... and then I felt wonderful! Like there isn't a care in the world. And there is dancing, there needs to be dancing." There is a cracking of lightning, briefly flashing the woman's skeleton interior against the light.
"We must be dancing."
Turning towards the light at the end of the tunnel, she giggles. "Lawdy, lawdy! Well isn't that just right! Why, I do wonder if my crew is in there! Would you be a dear and escort me? I simply -can't- go to the dancefloor without an escort! But first, before you can escort me, sweetie, we need to clean you right on up!" Lightning Spangles would be hooking an arm around Franz's own, smile being absolutely infectious. "You can't be my personal escort, pardner, until you get in just the right outfit for it!"
"There is a bedroom I found, you see..."
Varvara is a simple young woman with simple aims, and a simple understanding of events that go far over her head. Rumors about... things. Things that sound like she could probably get a little bit of spare money for employing the only thing she really knows. She was most likely seen by the others as she welcomed herself into the castle, immediately brutalizing the first servant she saw on reflex.
That said servant never seemed to lift a finger to defend themselves, or acknowledge her, or really do anything other than simply... get back up, should be a sign unto itself.
A sign that may well be in blazing neon flashing colors as though it were right out of Las Vegas, given they simply go about dusting the hall in absolute willing ignorance of a broken, unhinged jaw as the result of a rather nasty series of punches to the face.
To see others also creep in and make the journey inward - other outsiders - instills her biggest reason to brush off this circumstance. Competition. Scarcity. The prize, for her part, may well be entirely imagined, but the hunger is there. She wants to claim it, to drag whatever people have been talking about out, kicking and screaming, before whoever might have money to give her for doing it.
The brewing storm under the ominous full moon should be an omen to her gut feeling that it is unwise to continue traversing the castle inward, one she continues to ignore. That a head nary turns to look at the scarred woman of a steroid-addled physique in dress of a rugged, worn, dirty, sweat-, blood-, and tear-stained outfit that needed to be in a washing machine probably a year or so ago... is full of implications lost upon her.
She lags a bit behind the others, muscles honed for strength rather than endurance aching along the entire way as desire overcomes common sense, the shortest of the gathered young women en route to the top gritting her teeth every step of the way as her lungs cry for air and her legs for relief from just how many stairs she - and the rest - ascend. It feels as the time goes on that it just gets harder to move... her sight a little blurrier, even.
At the top, right near the end of everyone's journey laden with endless dialogue of Lightning Spankles, Varvara trips over her ankle-length azure pleated skirt, catching herself with hands that escape through long silk sleeves of a loose enough fit that her physique stays hidden. One hand raises from catching her own stumble, against a blue beaked bird-like mask, hiding away much of her face - her scars, even.
Her fingers curl around it as though to tear it off, but something... compels her to stop. Instead, she merely rises, and follows the rest into the light. Her steps are a bit lighter, a bit more delicate - maybe even... eager?
"We're late," she seems to say as though she suddenly were aware of... some other engagement? Her mouth goes agape for a moment, "we're late!" It's the first time she's said anything coherent to anyone else present, as she catches up behind the rest.
The sudden addition of cheerful singing to the almost grave-like silence that permeates the castle slams into the the built-up tension of the gloomy atmosphere like a hammer and the backlash almost causes the German agent to physically reel as she whirls around, hawkish eyes scanning the dusty nooks and crannies for the source of this new disturbance. The fact that the voice is singing in a thick Southern accent in English while they are currently in an ancient castle in the middle of Romania further sets it apart as completely out of place which only agitates Franziska further.
By the time the perpetrator of the unwanted mysterious addition to an already tense situation shows her face the woman is practically ready to pounce on the first thing that so much as twitches. The sound of footsteps on the paved stones behind her causes Franziska to whirl around, her fists coming up defensively, but her expression quickly goes through several emotions upon finally laying eyes upon Jezebel starting with a cautious glare that turns into a confused gape and finally something that resembles pure awe.
Even without her classic attire, "Lightning Spangles, the All-American hero" is impossible to mistake for anyone else. The energetic presence that the woman brings onto the stage seems to follow her even here along with all of the over-blown accoutrements of American cultural that she is known for. Words flow forth from Southern gal as she introduces herself and explains her predicament but they don't seem to register properly for Franziska merely stares like an enthralled child as one of the most prominent figures of her childhood comes waltzing out of the darkness like it was completely natural.
Eventually, however, the spell breaks as another bolt of terrible thunder explodes just outside the walls, flooding the hallway with a wash of white light. She half expects the woman to be gone when the light receeds, a phantom of her imagination brought on by stress, but Jezebel remains despite the absurdity of her presence in such a place and Franziska can do little but make a subtle confused noises for a time as she is taken by the arm.
"Uh... v-vell, I... I suppose not...?"
As if the strange magic of the castle were agreeing with the two of them, Franziska feels something... different about herself. The world distorts momentarily and she reaches up to steady the cap against her head only to find that her favorite piece of apparel is nowhere to be found. Surprised, she glances down towards the floor to see where it might have fallen but instead she is greeted by the sight of a new wardrobe entirely.
Where once she was dressed smartly in a uniform of military officer design her slender form is now clad in what can only be described as a barmaid's attire. A showy dress covered with all manner of frills and lace is cinched tightly against her chest, exposing her somewhat ample cleavage in a bold fashion. A corset of black is tied about her midriff, flaring out into a multi-layered skirt of green and white fabric that only barely keeps her modest. White thigh high stockings rise up to meet the bottom of the skirt, pouring down into a pair of high-heeled shoes.
She stares openly for a few moments, unable to comprehend this change but something supresses her anxiety, reassuring her that this is for the best and, despite her wariness, she feels compelled to listen. Tilting her head to peer at Jezebel, she smiles sheepishly.
"Vill zis do?"
Jira's own ascent soon finds another hitch as her legs stubbornly decide that she needs to move with daintiness that she so detested in her youth- and the sounds of others present on the stairwell. She hardly even took notice of -who- was around her, having been almost enthralled by the atmosphere itself. Looking around at the present figures conversing, she quickly names them in her head. This simple act of nickname giving gives her enough pause to realize her usual travelling clothes are missing and she's bound up in something else entirely. True to her assumption, she is no longer wearing her vest and the immediate effect is that she's suddenly finding center of gravity a few inches forward and higher, setting her balance off.
That makes the second notable change obvious when her legs catch in her kimono and she trips on the stairs, but the fall is cushioned bittersweetly by her chest. A tired groan is all she manages out before slowly rising to a stand and climbing up again- attempting to avoid eye contact with the others and the eerie sense of euphoria trying to creep in. For her benefit, the other voice in her head chases away the grip of the demons lying at the top floor and she continues proper, keeping to herself and skirting around the other climbers.
With a smile, she takes Franziska with her.
It does not take her long to bring her to the accursed room. Still, Jezebel is practically dancing, excited to see what kind of outfit her new best friend would come up with. Sitting on the bed, she is bouncing along, excited to see what will emerge. When she finally come out in that barmaid outfit, she comes just short of keeling over. "Wheeeee-wee! You look hotter than a chrome dinner plate out on a 20 mile highway!" She states, standing back up. Closing in on Franz, she leans in, inspecting it carefully...
Just in time for Varvara to rush in.
Turning to see Varvara, Lightning Spangles squees. "Well look at you! You must be a real tiger, cause you are the cat's meow!" As the rather brawny lass states that they are late, Jezebel lets out a gasp. Reaching into her corset, she pulls out a small watch on a chain. "Well, would you look at that! I have a watch in there!" Tucking it away, she claps her hands. "Lawdy, lawdy, we girls are just ready for the real night out. We are late for the dancing!" And there, she extends out an arm, one to the left, one to the right.
"Lets go ladies!"
**********
With the two in active escort (and a third following behind), Lightning Spangles brings her two ladies through a pair of great double doors. Bursting in, she is practically beaming as the haunting chords surge to their ears. The ballroom floor is empty, covered in a thin sheen of dust and blood. Nearby tables encircling the floor are neatly set up for dinner, despite the tattered tableclothes that they are covered with. Waiters and servants scurry around, carrying food trays and wine buckets, though to where, it is not clear. And finally, a small string band nearby plays the Dance Macabre on haunting violins. If one of the girls might pay attention, they would see that the instruments were alone there, as if they were played by invisible hands.
There must be an ipod hidden somewhere.
Jezebel does not notice herself; she is too busy saunting out into the room. "Well boy howdy, isn't this a real hoot! A real dance floor! We better get this party rolling!" Pulling up her dress, she hustles towards Franziska, reaching a hand out to her. "Darling! Don't mean to be real frank, but would ya, could ya,"
Join me for the first dance!"
I'm late, I'm late, I'm late. I'm behind, I can't catch up... but I won't be left behind. Such are words that seem like they could be running through the burly young woman's mind. One thing gives her absolute, sincere pause that but briefly halts her hustle.
A compliment to her looks. It is so disarming that she once again holds up her arms in front of her to see those flared-out sleeves, to look into the expert embroidering of her dress - those lovely patterns against such a deep, luxurious blue! She recognizes what this is, as though a deep tickled secret hidden away at what little knowledge she seems to have kept outside of all the ways to really punch, kick, squeeze, or toss a person.
The Amalia-style dress... rather popular Greek fashion, back in the day. Something about it seems to tickle the Greek-Cypirot brawler pink. She exhales loudly. Why do I feel so tense, she wonders. I look... I look...
FAST FORWARD...
Varvara is the last one through those great big double doors. In fact, they threaten to shut in her face. She does not allow them to, all but throwing one of them open with such strength that it threatens to bang against the wall.
Nothing about what goes on around her seems to register. This may well be the result of the bird-shaped mask on her face not doing great favors to her peripheral vision. Jezebel, charming as she has been in every circumstance prior, sets a mood with voice and invitation alone.
Instinctually, Varvara's arms raise upwards, palms open and pointed downwards. Her dress ruffles slightly to a raised, bent knee... but then the posture softens, as a frown can be seen from underneath the mask.
Is she confused? She feels as though there's something to say... something to do? Is doubt creeping back into the heart of a young woman who has come to that horrible, unsettling, harrowing realization that, for the first time ever in recent recollection, she's...
...
...
"Is that," she mouths aloud as she casts a sharp glance over to a young woman dressed in a kimono that made it in through the double doors before herself, "is that... are you really comin' here, dressed up like that?"
She sounds as though... offended? Intimidated? It's... hard to say.
As if swept up in a haunting dream, Franziska follows alongside the cheerful American idol without comment or complaint, striding down the long hallway with a graceful ease that defies her inexperience with such attire. Her vision swims as they walk and the dreary dullness of the empty hall begins to melt away to be replaced with a warm yellow light cast by golden candelabras. Where once nothing but dust and moldy rags hung from the walls there is now an endless parade of beautiful hand-woven tapestries, each inlaid with murals that depict scenes of frightful carnage or debased rituals. Curiosity draws the German's gaze towards these decorations but attempting to focus upon their surface strikes her with an overwhelming wave of nausea and fatigue and she quickly looks away, shifting her eyes to the face of her escort instead, her expression somewhat transparent as if her mind is only half present.
Their arrival at the ballroom once more snaps Franziska out of her strange funk and she quickly follows Jezebel into the massive open space staring in wide-eyed wonder. She spins about in place, slowly taking in the bizarre macabre surroundings, from the empty tables set as if prepared for a feast to the ghostly instruments that fill the air with a haunting melody. The music in particular seems to set the mood and despite the grim decorations she can't help but be swept up by the surging energy of the ominous chords.
Franziska begins to sway about in a small circle, her arms extended as if to embrace an invisible dance partner in a sauntering waltz. She spins a few times, her movements matching the rhythm of the music, her eyes closed as the dark magic of the castle floods over her senses. Jezebel's voice calls her back once again and she smiles lazily, her knees bending slightly in a formal curtsey as she reaches out to take the other woman's invitation.
"Zee honor vould be mine."
A short trip ignoring the others and half-shuffling her way through those wide doors into the macabre 'ballroom' with a sense of alarm. She's a little worked up by that climb in her kimono, and is more questioning as various other women gather in similar states of formal and.... feminine wear to have a nice time dancing with one another. But the most unsettling detail to Jira is, infact, the floating instruments which draw an incredible amount of fear into her at both the appearance and how they're trying to suggest that they're not playing themselves.
Perhaps it's the warning signals suddenly firing in the back of her head, or her pent up itching to shoot something, or the suggestion of that other voice in her head, but the question from the masqued girl begets the response of Jira pulling out her gun and jamming in a trio of standard rounds from under her obi.. she swears that she brought her normal travelling gear here, and her cache of bullets, but cannot understand why in blazes she's dressed up and -still- got her stash. A trio of cacophanous CRAKKS boom from her gun as she milks the trigger at those absolutely horrible violins with dead-on accuracy, leaving echoes of the gunshots radiating throughout this very wrong room.
COMBATSYS: Jira has started a fight here.
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Jira 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Franziska has joined the fight here on the left meter side.
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Franziska 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Jira
COMBATSYS: Jira has joined the fight here on the left meter side.
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Franziska 0/-------/-------|
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Jira 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Varvara has wandered into the fight here on the right meter side.
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Franziska 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/-------|
And delicately, Jezebel takes her partner.
Holding her by her hand, another hand upon her waist, she does not dosiedo. No, instead, she waltzes with Franziska. Step two three, step two three. "Great footwork, pardner! You really got the moves!" She praises, smiling broadly as she looks right into Franz's eyes, dimples flourishing across her freckled face. "I don't mean to brag, but I got my dance lessons from the same guy who taught Fei Long how to ballroom dance. Little known fact: Fei Long is a championship cha-cha dancer, and used to be picked for his dancing ability! You learn all kinds of things like that in showbizness-"
"Oh dear"
The cowgirl is distracted as the strange girl in the kimono opens fire into the music stands. Biting her lower lip, she looks towards Franz nervously. And taking a deep breath in, she sighs. "Sweetie, I didn't want to break it to you like this." She whispers, confiding a confession to her pardner. "But when I was in the room, a voice told me... Oh, my crew." She gets a dazed, faraway look in her eyes, before shaking it off. "The voice told me, I would be his. And soon, you'll hear the voice too. But darling... the voice said I'd be the one."
"But only if I took care of the others first."
And with that, her grip tightens.
Shooting a foot down, she steps into Franz's own stance, entangling herself close to her dance partner. She was taking control of Franz, seizing her center of balance. With a heave, the actress, looking absolutely pained, begins to try and lift the German up and around. Jezebel will attempt to pick her up, and spin her around. If successful, she will give her a big toss, attempting to hurl her right into a nearby table.
Not forgetting a "Sorry!" first, of course.
COMBATSYS: Jezebel has joined the fight here on the right meter side.
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Franziska 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Jezebel
COMBATSYS: Franziska dodges Jezebel's Strong Throw.
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Franziska 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Jezebel
The shortest of the four to barge in - no, be cordially invited, pardon - and the last one in watches as the American and German women both show their moves. For what seemed to fill her with such shocking acceptance comes the creeping, inching spectre of personal doubt and inadequacy. The atmosphere, paradoxically, invites ease. Ease of movement for those entranced and enthralled by whatever force beckons the four of them to have come here in the first place. The one in the Amalia dress visibly fidgets...
"Me...?" She asks aloud, to a question nobody seems to have asked - but as Lightning Spangles herself says, sooner or later, one might hear that voice. It could be her turn. To hear those promises by the voice of... someone. A man. She does not see a man here, but there's that presence...
Gunshots echo through the room! There's a sudden shriek as Varvara lunges herself at the kimono-clad Japanese girl whom has decided to bear arms in the middle of such a grand affair, running up to clasp her arms around her tightly from behind not as a skilled, frighteningly powerful (for her size) wrestler... but almost more as that of a concerned bystander showing a little courage without all the little nuance that goes into tightening one's grip, or how one flexes any number of muscles in the body for such the simple act of a grab from behind.
Other than the lingering, gnawing, powerful feeling that she really, really could do... more... in some fashion, other than merely shriek...
Franziska's face lights up as her hand entwines with that of the woman she dreamed of meeting since she was a girl of ten, locked away from the outside world in the basement of an old castle; much like this one, only instead of the grim scent of blood and death her home was filled with the sterile odor of chemicals and disinfectant. For a few moments she feels like a child again, overwhelmed with a wave of nostalgia and reverent awe that only someone completely naive to the ways of the real world can experience.
The two of them move skillfully about the surface of the ballroom in small circles, Franziska following easily in the lead of the other woman. Living the life of a cloistered noble, she has ofcourse received professional lessons on pointless things like ballroom dancing and it shows in the graceful flow of her steps. "You dance vonderfully," she says in response to Jezebel's name dropping, knowing absolutely nothing about the person she's talking about.
The sudden burst of gunfire causes them both to halt together, their heads turning in unison in a rather calm manner despite the danger but Jezebel's shift in tone draws the German's attention back her way, both of them seemingly forgetting about the other two entirely. She peers at the other woman, her head tilting in slight confusion but before she can finish her confession another voice suddenly rises to the fore. Coming from everywhere and no where at once, it speaks directly into her mind and soul, a deep commanding bass that reverberates through her entire being.
*Fight... show your strength and earn your place at my side...*
"-if I took care of the others first."
Franziska's eyes snap wide open as she realizes what is going on, the final piece that connects the strange series of events that have led up to this point sliding into place. This is a test - a contest to discover who is the most worthy to claim the elusive prize that lurks in the darkness. And she wants it; more than anything she's ever wanted in her life, Franziska wants to be the one to claim the rewards on offer here. There is no reasoning that she can bring forth to explain this, either to herself or the woman standing before her, but she knows only that she has to fight.
When the grip around her waist grows tight, Franziska's expression shifts from a hazed almost lazy smile to a confident smirk, her eyes narrowing on Jezebel's apologetic face. When the cowgirl makes her move, the barmaid shifts her weight and steps to the side, sliding gracefully out of her grip with a final spin as if to bring their short-lived dance to an end with a flourish. Her hand remains clasped about Jezebel's wrist, however, and she whirls around to place her other palm flat upon the back of her elbow in an attempt to gain control of the situation by putting her in a joint lock.
"Zere is no need to apologize," she says, her cheerful persona finally rising to fore. Franziska seems to radiate an aura of warmth and presence that goes beyond her mere appearance, a sensation of deep empathy as if she were reaching out to embrace the souls of everyone present with a pleasant feeling.
"Let us just... enjoy zee dance."
COMBATSYS: Jira blocks Varvara's Fast Throw.
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Franziska 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Jezebel
The woman hardly gets a break, a practised flicking of her wrist dropping three shells to the ground in a chiming series of clinks. She hears a voice, but a little someone puts the influence tied to it away from Jira. Right now the important detail to focus on is how she is becoming lighter and lifted from behind. Her first reaction as she's sent airborne is to curl into a braced little ball and smack into the floor. A loud huff forces its way out of her mouth and she springs to her feet, and in the same moment rolls up her kimono into itself to free her legs to move.
She grips her smoking gun tight in her left hand and sprints up to the masqued offender, turning her upper body to the right and drawing her right arm back, making a flat palm. Then in a single, explosive movement she twists her upper half a half circle and juts that opened palm forward, sending a flashing and loud shockwave towards her offender. The wave of flickering, pink light travels rapidly and sounds to be screaming indistinctly before it breaks up a few meters away into nothing.
COMBATSYS: Franziska successfully hits Jezebel with Gelenksperre.
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Franziska 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Jezebel
She was a magnificant dancer, it seemed.
The throw is negated as the brawn hilda slips from the cowgirl's grasp. Almost immediately, in that opening, she finds herself in a joint lock. Instinctively, she contorts, and groans in pain. "Ah! Ah! Holy mackral, that hurts worse than when he says 'I love you!' The girl exclaims. Though Franz could very likely feel that for all the hamming it up, she was reacting stronger than the damage she would be doing. With a heave, Jezebel forces the jointlock to break by miming herself being thrown away. Tossed aside by her own actions, she throws herself into a table, which collapses.
Flipping her skirt up in full view of everyone.
"My goodness, where is my crew?" She says absentmindly, as the servants scurry around her to clean up the mess. Smoothing down her dress, she staggers up, exposed arms well bruised. Looking around helplessly at the servants, she grabs one by the leg. Her eyes go wide, her jaw goes slack. She knew this person. For a moment, the spell is overcome as she gasps loudly.
"Henry!?"
Grabbing the servant by its shoulders, she looks intensely at him. The earring of the Star of David. The Roman nose. The sandy brown hair. This was Henry! But something was wrong. He looked so sick, so hollow. Even as she grabs him, and shakes him, he pulls himself away. "Darling, he is part of my crew, and I-"
And the enchantment takes hold.
She is almost jerked ahead, stumbling forward in a daze. "Oh dear!" She exclaims, as her dress swirls with every step. The dress flips up, showing full view of both her bloomers and her stockings, as she swings a kick straight for Franz's bountiful chest. There is a popping sound as a tiny purple ball of energy is sent hurtling from the Saloon girl's leg. Hissing and crackling, should it hit Franz or near her, it will sink into the point of contact, and do nothing, for a moment.
Before exploding into a firework burst right on that same point.
COMBATSYS: Jira successfully hits Varvara with Psycho Palm.
- Power hit! -
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Franziska 0/-------/-------|===----\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/------=|=------\-------\0 Jezebel
The kimono-clad heat packer helps pull herself out of the grasp of the shorter, probably stouter, but no less... beautiful? In the heat of the moment, somehow, a mind that's usually clouded by tunnel vision towards her own desires, however simplistic and maybe even childishly impulsive they might be... has themselves a new concern.
Instinctually, she crosses her arms in front of herself as there are clear signs of an impending attack. Her arms are positioned just right to maybe stop the palm's blow itself... but then something, something just takes hold of her. Under the mask, her eyes widen as she observes just how amazing the quality of her sleeves are - it's beautiful silk! Can she allow it to be scuffed?!
Concern for her clothes wins out over concern for her well being as the pink wave of power punches through to the bare skin above and around her chest. She trips over herself stumbling back as an unpleasant jolt of power gnaws at her psyche.
She bares her teeth as her mind draws a complete blank from shock, slipping to pull herself up from the slick dance floor. Honed, rote technique struggles with clothing not made for sudden, unrestricted movements, and Varvara seems to suffer for it as she staggers past the graceful exchanges between the other two, fingers curled as though she were intending to claw someone's eyes out.
"D-Don't you friggin' dare--" there's an awkward yanking sensation not in her throat, but her voice, as though something were hijacking what she means to say, to re-explain to her why she's suddenly so upset, "--take him from me!"
She doesn't pause to consider the implications of what she just shrieked out as she ungracefully lunges at Jira, trying to hurl her entire right arm over and around her very neck to bow her over down to her lower, shorter level, drawing back her left fist with an unladylike snarl in an attempt to headlock - and then knock a fist against the head of - the gun-toting Japanese woman who is here for...
...why are they all here? Such a thought is lost in the heat of the highly aggressive moment.
COMBATSYS: Franziska Toughs Out Jezebel's Young Guns!
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Franziska 0/-------/-----==|==-----\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/------=|=------\-------\0 Jezebel
Franziska looks a little surprised at first when the Southern belle throws herself down with a great deal more force than she put into the attack but her confusion quickly turns into amusement once she realises what is going on. Naturally, Lightning Spangles is playing her part! This is all just a big show - a show that she gets to be a part of!
Amazingly, the haze in her mind starts to clear, vampire magic no match for the childish glee that floods her body at the thought. Franziska takes a loose combat stance as she waits for the star of the show to go through her lines, the sudden unexpected twist of drama upon discovering her lost crew just the sort of cheesy plot twist one should expect from America's idol.
And then they're back in the action. Practically bouncing with anticipation for the next exchange, the German barmaid puts on her best smug villain smile and flips a hand through her hair haughtily.
"Zere is no vay I vill lose to you, Lightning Spangles!"
The energy ball is an unexpected surprise but one that Franziska could easily have dealt with - but that's not how these things works! Moving deliberately, but not too obviously, she swings at the projectile as if to bat it aside but the glowing orb vanishes into her corset, which earns a genuine look of confusion from the woman.
"Vait, vasn't zat supposed to..."
Boom. Yes, yes it was.
Lights and searing pain explode from Franziska's chest and she yelps in surprise, staggering back from the energetic chi blast. She regains her composure quickly, however, and uses her momentum to snatch up a nearby chair, spinning it around herself like a centrifuge before hurling it at Jezebel.
COMBATSYS: Varvara successfully hits Jira with Minotaur Slayer.
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Franziska 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Varvara
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////////// ]
Jira 0/-------/---====|=------\-------\0 Jezebel
Jira twists back to her normal standing position with a swagger after her attack, a little off centre- she isn't used to her chest being 'free' of motion as the kimono allows. She doesn't register her previous offender's advance until she's bent into kneeling, headlocked, and facepunched with a squawk and a whimper at the sudden hit.
Jira's reply to the assault is swinging her left arm over to the gripping arm's socked and jabbing the pointed end of her weapon's handle at it like a stake, whether it connects or not at the end of the motion a flash of bright, white light pours out from her body. Her form bulks up significantly, muscles becoming ripplingly pronounced under her kimono and on her legs, along with her eyes changing colour from pink to a flat, shimmering red.
Jira grunts and rattles in the hold, the gun itself vanishes much like the previous shockwave did and she uses her added mass to twist out of the lock and stumble a bit.
COMBATSYS: Jezebel blocks Franziska's Thrown Object.
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Franziska 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/---====|==-----\-------\0 Jezebel
Boom indeed.
The sparkling flare lands straight into the body of Franz. It takes a moment to go off, but when it does, it stings. Unfortunately, if Jezebel wanted to be a vampire bride, she would need a lot more than a sting. As Jira and Varavara hurl into each other (points to the cutie in blue!), Lightning Spangles adjusts her top, before dropping back to the defensive stance of Tae Kwon Do.
Even her fighting style is corporate.
As the chair is snapped across the danceroom floor, Jezebel is anticipating it. Turning a shoulder towards it, she takes the hit straight on, stumbling back waaaay too much than what a chair like that should be. Just like the joint lock before, she was overreacting to the impact, rolling with the hits instead of straight out smashing through them. Stumbling back, she fights to regain her footing. Eyes lashing out across the dancefloor, she pumps a fist in the air.
"No way, you sausage eating troublemaker!"
Lightning Spangles exclaims, body surging with energy. "By the red, white, and blue, I won't let this count end up with you! We don't need another German ensnaring a poor helpless count in their clutches! What he needs is apple pie! Baseball! Blue Jeans and Bubble tops!" Forming a V with her fingers, she sweeps her hands across her face as the energy suddenly consolidates into a form. "I may not know where my crew is. But by the name of George Washington!" The energy bursts behind her, in the shape of the red, white, and blue; the American Flag.
"I will defeat you!"
COMBATSYS: Jezebel burns with the AMERICAN SPIRIT!
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Franziska 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/---====|======-\-------\0 Jezebel
COMBATSYS: Jira successfully hits Varvara with Quick Strike.
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Franziska 0/-------/-----==|=====--\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/---====|======-\-------\0 Jezebel
"Sh-shut up!" Varvara shouts above it all as she wrestles with the Japanese girl in that headlock she's managed to put them in, arguing against the more glowing presence of the two other women who have moved to put their individual personal appeal before the judgment of... that voice. That person, who seems to whisper... encouragements, of sorts.
In that moment of distraction, it proves fatal... for Varvara's dress, as something stabs through the fabric and into her arm, another yelp that echoes through the chamber. The color red starts to stain the immaculately designed top of the Amalia-style dress, a sudden cool feeling where the stab happens. Backing away to Jira's release, Varvara's other arm dares to reach out and confirm a horrible thought...
Just as a terrifying, unnatural thing happens before her eyes to a flash of white light that escapes the Japanese girl's body. The Greek-Cypirot takes but a step back to watch that stunning, startling transformation - the increase in size, those stunning red eyes...
"Who... what--" It's a rare moment of clarity where adrenaline starts to take hold over the complacency that the voice seems to want her to ease into. Prove yourself, and you are mine, it says. The shorter, brutish woman's breathing becomes irregular in seeming fear as she sizes up this now larger, stronger Jira.
"You... you," she stammers, as if fight or flight (or dance) were trying to fight through her words, but soon enough, something wins out. Something that compels her to... do. Something that compels her to... be. Something that compels her to dare stand up to this strange monster of a woman before her, a loud shout as she suddenly lunges forwards, fists flying. Fists that struggle to move quickly with each strike due to just the weight of the cloth around her arms, the way they flap about with how fast she does it... she leans into it anyway, giving it her complete all with one hand slightly bloodied from clutching a injured arm, for the reason she screams as follows...
"Y-YOU RUINED MY DRESS!" She howls, punctuating every tiny bit of her displeasure with every rapid strike.
Jezebel's stereotypical insult only causes the German to smile wider and she takes a few moments to adjust her already revealing outfit, shifting it back into place as the showy explosion came close to breaking the rating of this show. This gives the star plenty of time to go through her dramatic power up and Franziska looks on with an expression of awe that is mostly fake. Mostly.
Even though she is the villain in this scenario, Franziska eats up the over-blown theatrics and does her best to match them with her own. Throwing her arms wide as if to draw the entire room into her embrace, she tilts her head back and laughs like a megalomaniacal bad guy from a Saturday morning cartoon.
"Kya ha ha ha! Your foolishness is overvhelming, Lightning Spangles! No foundink fazer is a match for a servant of zee Fazerland!"
Despite her rather unsuitable attire, Franziska suddenly snaps to attention and thrusts her hand into the air in an unmistakable zeig heil salute. The air around her begins to crackle ominously with invisible energy but the distortion effect it has on the air is quite noticable. She closes her eyes and puts on a serious expression, her voice shifting to a low threatening tone.
"Razer zan apple pie..." Her hand lowers, one finger extending towards Jezebel across the room. "You vill feast on mein fist!"
COMBATSYS: Franziska focuses on her next action.
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Franziska 0/-------/-----==|====---\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/---====|======-\-------\0 Jezebel
COMBATSYS: Jira guards against Varvara's Binding Seeds.
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Franziska 0/-------/-----==|====---\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/--=====|======-\-------\0 Jezebel
Torn clothing has never quite been a concern of Jira, especially in her recent line of training- it happens often enough she gave up on it. The more immediate concern for both of the two is the rapid procession of bumhands trying to make contact. Knowing how much power the other girl can put out, there is no recourse than bringing up her arms and bracing it, soaking up a majority of the hits with helpful and calculated twists of her torso and raising and lowering of her arms. As soon as an opening presents itself, Jira jerks forward to break out of rapid punching distance and becoming much more personal.
"Perhaps you should worry less about your dress, you can find clothes where you find people." she states in a haunting mixture of her own voice and a deep, masculine tone. As she talks, a smooth, green glow flickers and shifts over her skin and slowly sinks further in. Her hands suddenly rise up and grab at her offender's shoulders.
"Also, good evening. I do so enjoy lively company." while she was giving her brief greeting in that dual-voice she's acquired in this bulkier form, a white, flicker of psycho-energy had formed over her knee, which was brought up rapidly to strike into the other's gut!
"Who needs a fatherland when you can count on your good ole' UNCLE SAM!"
As the fiery American fireworks fade behind Jezebel, she withdraws her fist, lowering to a wide-legged crouch. Another flash of fire erupts around her, as she charges up further. "Nobody can stand against the forces of freedom! The heart of America runs through this castle! Listen to the air? Can't you hear freedom ring?" Cupping a hand to her ear, she listens.
There is a ringing noise that runs through the castle.
Another fireworks burst erupts around her, as she grins fiercely, the skirt swirling around. "Well, boy howdy! Sounds like whom the bell tolls for, is the Kaiser himself! Get ready ma'am!" And with an explosion of red fire, she leaps through the air, spiralling head first as her dress twirls.
"WHERE EAGLES DARE!!!"
Launching through the air, the woman rotates her body with the momentum the leap gives, slamming her leg straight for Franziska's shoulder. Should it make contact, it will explode in a flare of red fireworks. And after that, a second aerial roundhouse, with a white flame eruption, and to finish the assault, a third and final aerial roundhouse, unleashing the blue fireworks burst on contact. With that, Jezebel will land past Franz, before bouncing straight back up.
Just in time to give a salute up to the audience.
COMBATSYS: Varvara blocks Jira's Aggressive Strike.
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Franziska 0/-------/-----==|======-\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/-======|======-\-------\0 Jezebel
The posturing that goes between Franziska and Lightning Spangles almost seems to make the exchange that goes on between the other two... frontrunners... for the acceptance of a most influential host almost something of an afterthought. A background event, where screeches of anger and strange voices provide the ambient backdrop to the epic conflict of appeal between those two poised to get by on their charms.
These other two... seem to try to get by on their merits of strength.
Varvara metaphorically sees red (what she really sees is in the usual coloration - just poor peripheral eyesight thanks to the mask), the stain under her arm growing, its crimson essence already stained on her left hand that she threatens to impart upon that impeccable kimono, battering hands against arms with all enthusiasm.
Jira, in her newfound body, pushes her way in through the flurry and seems to catch Varvara off guard. She is not helped by her dress that impedes any sudden movement... or perhaps, in this singular instance, she is, tripping backwards into a seated position as the white-clad knee is hurled at her. It just misses smashing her mask from this new elevation advantage Jira now holds over her.
Her arms flail in such a way that it may be seen as a successful attempt at a defense, but the real difference is more 'how much it hurts to be kneed in the face' compared to 'how much it hurts to suffer being clipped in the left forearm,' arm deflected upwards with a cry of pain as that psycho power pierces the skin and invades the psyche.
Varvara snaps back something short, something guttural in her native Greek tongue that may be better left unprinted. Seated on the ground, she looks more like a woman that might be ready to beg, pleas for mercy. Her right forearm holds before her face, as if to cower, to look away.
It's not subterfuge. It's describing such a gesture much, much too soon.
"R-Ruin someone else's hopes," she spits in equal parts disgust and sorrow as she all but lunges herself into the shin of the leg not used to strike, trying to wring both arms around Jira in a nasty tackle with what little forward momentum she can put forth given she has to navigate that dress, and the unpleasant, scratchy texture of the floor that unsettles one's footing to consider who or what history they are treading upon...
COMBATSYS: Franziska interrupts Where Eagles Dare EX from Jezebel with Eisenkorper.
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Franziska 1/-------/=======|======-\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/-======|=======\-------\1 Jezebel
Franziska feigns annoyance at the casual dismissal of her homeland, brows furrowing as she narrows her intense blue eyes upon the American hero. Her faux anger turns into real confusion at the sound of the bell and she lowers her arm to peer around at the walls as if trying to locate the source of the bell. More fireworks draw her attention back where it belongs, however, leaving yet another mystery unsolved in this bizarre castle.
Trying to look unphased, the German smirks and casually flips a hand through her hair again. "Hmph! You tricks vill do you no good, capitolist svine! Zee only sing I hear is zee sound of your funeral dirge!"
Now, being the adamant fan of Jezebel's that she is, Franziska knows what constitutes the elements of a good fight. There's plenty of witty banter and catchy one-liners, lots of showy displays of American spirit and some good old fashioned product placement, but there has to be tension for a fight to be interesting. People need to be kept on the edge of their seats, waiting to see what will happen next, which means that the villain needs to get a few good licks in.
As Jezebel is practically broadcasting her intentions as aggressively as her producers broadcast her shows, it isn't that hard to see the assault coming. Franziska almost takes the first hit dead on as recognition dawns on her - it's one of the classic moves! She practically sqeels like a little girl upon seeing the flying kick and it is only through her desire to put up a good fight that she manages to remember that she should probably move.
"Ah... ! I should... oh yes!"
Bringing her forearm up defensively, Franziska intercepts the first kick which results in a brilliant explosion of red light that brings a rather unpleasant burning sensation with it; but she doesn't care - she's actually getting hit by Lightning Spangles signature attack, eee!
The second kick comes hard and fast but like the first the dazzling display of spiritual fireworks finds itself blunted on the German's incredibly durable defense. It isn't until she goes for the clincher that Franziska finally takes action. As Jezebel's leg swings around for the final kick, she steps in close and catches the idol on her shoulder, interrupting the motion and leaving the woman completely at her mercy.
"Didn't you know...", Franziska asks, leaning in with a sultry smirk. "Bald eagles are extinct."
With a powerful heave, Jezebel is lifted into the air, flipped backwards by the German's incredible strength. Before she can fall to the ground, however, Franziska is on her again, shooting across the small gap like a bolt of lightning with her fist extended. It hammers into showgirl's torso and a sharp crack like a peal of thunder fills the ballroom as a bubble of kinetic energy explodes directly against her body.
COMBATSYS: Jira dodges Varvara's Quick Throw.
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Franziska 1/-------/=======|======-\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/-======|=======\-------\1 Jezebel
So focused is Jira on the battle that she takes a moment to come down from her strike with brilliant poise, eyes on the perhaps cowering form of the other woman. Immediately she sees the lunge given by the other woman and jumps upwards and over her lunge. She turns around and stares down at her opponent, hearing the flashes going off and finally turning her attention briefly to the other combat going on.
"I will give you a few moments to gather yourself, you seem out of pace. Take your time, I won't resume until you do." she says to the masqued girl while turning her body and relaxing her posture to watch the fireworks show amongst the brawl of other women tugging and tussling at eachother in the name of some prize Jira obviously has no wish for. True to their word, Jira shows no immediate signs of aggression and actually looks to be relaxing and enjoying the show in the room, especially between the americanized woman and her overtly german adversary.
COMBATSYS: Jira drops her guard to recover.
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Franziska 1/-------/=======|======-\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/-======|=======\-------\1 Jezebel
Hey, even historically, America needs a few shots at Germany before overcoming it.
Smashing into the barmaiden, the first kick lands with an explosion of red. The second comes, hammering again with the flash of white. But there is no third kick, no third burst, no thumbs up. For Jezebel is seized by her opponent, and is blasted away. Only Red and White was unleashed into Franz.
The colours of AUSTRIA
As shame overtakes her, Lightning Spangles is sent hurtling across the room, smashing hard into the ballroom wall. So hard, in fact, that the paneling are knocked in, revealing the parlour next door. Within are three impossibly-paled skin women of immeasurable youth and beauty. Dressed in fine, if archiac, dressware of the same modesty as the four girls right now, they are busy with fans and glasses of what must be very thick wine. Their conversation is interrupted, but instead of gazing on contempt of the American who has smashed through, their attention drifts elsewhere.
Straight to Varavara, in fact.
"Oh, just look at her!" The brown haired one states, giggling to the other. "Can you believe how ugly she is?" The black haired lass nods. "And look at that dress! I wonder if her hulking limbs is what left it in tatters." The brown haired girl shakes her hair. "For all we know, she could have gotten it that way!" The red haired lady adds, murmuring behind her fan. "I honestly thought she was one of the servants, until I realize she was much too fat!"
"MO HO HO HO!"
The trio of ladies laugh loudly as Jezebel staggers upright. She wanted to speak up against them. But she was compelled to return to the room. Compelled to fight in the ballroom. Staggering over the rubble of the wall, she begins bounding, stepping fiercely forward into a charge. "The American Eagle is only threatened. Threatened by ladies like you! I would take a wounded eagle any day over a goose step like you!" She exclaims, vaulting into the air. Swinging her leg around, it erupts in a bright, rainbow light. Hurling her leg across, red, white, and blue flares are scattered across the floor around Franz. Not a direct hit, by any means, but a carpetbombing. Like the energy flare before, it will not explode immediately, but after a delay, it with burst into a full image all around her.
An image of Statue of Liberty in the fireworks display.
COMBATSYS: Franziska Toughs Out Jezebel's Sundance!
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Franziska 1/----===/=======|======-\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 0/-------/-======|=======\=------\1 Jezebel
Varvara slides across the floor. One present woman is so startled that they spill their (very) red wine upon her with a shriek! It stains and ruins her dress further as she lies sprawled upon the floor. Her face, mostly hidden by the mask, should probably be so embarrassed that it turns her blue bird-like mask purple. Such a faux pas! The laughter, the mocking, the thumbing down of noses... the relief that comes from those so worried about being unaccepted that they are willing to work out such anxiety by heaping shame upon the seemingly unfortunate.
Varvara makes gasping noises that are lost in the laughter and mockery about herself, and that ruined dress. She can see that abomination of a woman somehow having transformed into something else turn their back like she's worthy of pity. Weak. Incapable. She shudders as she pushes up with both her arms, one significantly less steady due to the stab from earlier.
The women that gather themselves here - by curiosity, compulsion, or some combination thereof - generally present themselves as they believe would best win the affection of the lord of this castle. For what ghastly a reward it may well be, those that allow themselves to be spellbound put on every subtle little trick in the book. Every little curtsy, every little wink, every word, every step... they all attempt to exude the ultimate of what they believe the man(?) seeks in a companion.
Then... there are the likes of Varvara Economou. One who forsook grace and typical expectations of how a woman is "supposed" to carry themselves. For whatever reason that compelled her to throw everything to the wind in a self-destructive lifestyle full of violence and avarice, the scars she bears from physical duress and just how hard she pushed herself to have the strength and technique she has as a formidable user of pankration... yet, here she is, willingly playing to a culture she feels compelled to participate in.
"Keh...!" She growls, teeth clenching, squeezing her fist as she slams it against a floor that feels far colder to the touch than it ought to. A floor that feels as cold as death itself, of something anathema to the world the gathered seem poised to leave behind.
She rises up, still on her knees as she bellows an angry cry that might even draw pause from the mysteriously invisible band that may or may not be playing. The hypnotizing grip of the centuries-old upper crust traditions being imparted upon her psyche slip, fists clenched tight. Blood goes down one side of her cheeks, presumably from biting it in rage.
As Jira (or whoever, whatever she may have turned into) turns her back to enjoy the fight at her own leisure, Varvara leaps right at her, that dress be damned. The very wind compresses and swirls around her left hand as she reaches out for the taller woman's left upper arm, threatening to squeeze it against said arm (or shoulder, or wherever else) with such fervor, such strength that any air that could possibly exist in the space between her hand and wherever it finds purchase violently and noisily escapes through the cracks of her fingers, threatening to dig into - if not crush outright - muscle and bone in said grip that the very energy of the earth manifests. She says things. They are unintelligible by any standard of language.
Drawing back her right fist (after another attempt to find purchase on gripping Jira, if the first is avoided) as she violently draws her fist towards their back, again and again, to batter the kimono-clad, muscle-bound monster of a woman into nothing short of a bloodied sack of meat. Any and all traces of civility disappear entirely. Her breath grows heavier by the minute as she over-exerts her very muscles to keep striking, keep holding her down, to keep attempting to utterly brutalize her.
Where Jira offers politeness and civility to the contest, to Varvara Economou, this petty contest to suddenly win the right to be at the side of someone she does not know, let alone as to why she has the compulsion to do so... is as though a fight for survival, a life or death matter to get anything and everything she wants.
It is desperate, horrific, and utterly primal in what violence she dares to inflict.
COMBATSYS: Varvara blitzes into action and acts again!
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Franziska 1/----===/=======|-------\-------\0 Varvara
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////// ]
Jira 0/-------/-======|=======\=------\1 Jezebel
As if to rub salt in the wound, Franziska snaps to attention once more and salutes the emphemeral streaks of red and white that still linger in the air. Austria may not be a part of the German territory any longer but as a former part of the empire it is almost as good as the real thing. Annoying feminine laughter follows Jezebel as she flies into the wall, Franziska continuing to do her part to play the overblown villain by gloating over her minor victory.
The ghastly women on the other side are paid little mind as they seem to be nothing more than extremely anemic debutantes, the very sort one would expect to find in a haunted old Romanian castle - if it was in a Hollywood movie that is. Clearly, they are just part of the show! But their commentary does cause her to turn and peer at the other two woman in mild curiosity, as if only just now remembering that they exist.
Her attention does not wander for long, however, as the show must go on! Lightning Spangle's defiant counter to her assertion of the eagle's demise snaps Franziska's head back towards the flashy Southerner and she drops into an arrogantly loose combat stance, clearly emboldened by her previous success. It is that arrogance that allows the idol to unleash her surprise long-range attack.
As the energy orbs rain down around her, Franziska's smirk quickly fades into a concerned look of panic, her head whipping back and forth to watch the many projectiles shower the ground in such a way that she has no where to flee. Again, there is a dramatica pause, as if Jezebel's very spirit itself were capable of channeling theatrical tension, before the world turns into a chaotic blend of colors and pain.
Franziska cries out as she braces against the onslaught, raising her arms up to shield her face, but she can do little more than that as the storm of explosions tears into her from all sides. In truth, she had expected exactly this outcome - after all, this is the same move Lightning Spangles used to defeat Kommander Klaus in episode 24! After landing a good hit on the hero, it is only proper to let her take command of the action again, but damn does it smart more than she expected.
"Nrghrrh?! Vat is zis?! Z-zee Statue of Liberty?!" The German maiden throws her hands apart, waving the back of her fist at the shimmering image as if to dispel it with sheer willpower. "I vill not allow freedom to triumph here! Let us see how you deal vis zee tactic zat drove zee Allies to zee brink of defeat!"
Franziska holds up a fist, calling forth a showy display of psycho-kinetic energy that dances across the skin of her hand in tiny bolts of raw power. The energy flashes and flares briefly but disappates when the woman turns to attack, existing for little more than some extra pizzaz. Leaning forward, she takes off at a dead run towards Jezebel and lays into her with a series of slow but powerful punches, each strike impacting like a sledgehammer but giving her ample time to avoid or counter them.
"Blitzkrieg... Assault!"
COMBATSYS: Jira blocks Varvara's Lion Crush.
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Franziska 1/-----==/=======|=------\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 1/-----==/=======|=======\=------\1 Jezebel
COMBATSYS: Varvara successfully hits Jira with Chimera's End.
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Franziska 1/-----==/=======|===----\-------\0 Varvara
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Jira 1/---====/=======|=======\=------\1 Jezebel
The brilliant show of lights is enough to keep her entertained for now- but even with her attention elsewhere, Jira can nonchalantly lift up her left hand and lace fingers with that violent, chi-infused grasp. It wasn't the crushing force that makes her grunt, but that baneful, Foreign energy invading her body and wracking her entire being in damaging backlash, enough to distract her from reacting to the violent savaging against her back. After that she glows a violent, bright white that overcomes the shine of the fireworks. Shadowy images of her body crop up in various places around the room and briefly dispell the illusory ball on the surfaces they rest atop of.
"You've almost got her unable to continue, I do hope your performance can last." she replies before spinning her gripped arm in a few circles and pulls it back. She turns and leaps upwards with surprising, unnatural agility- a shockwave of white psycho energy encapsuling her form and solidifying for her to land on top of one of those 'shadows and actually jump off of it towards her brutish opponent. She doesn't hit dead on, but instead moves to catch her with her right leg in a sweep before rebounding off the ground and onto the next shadow.
"Won't you please give me the dance you have earned." she calls, and leaps at Varvara again- and in a feat of technique moves quickly enough to only show a brilliant web of violent, explosive energy that constricts against Varvara, aside from the physical blows after each almost simultaneous pass to the next shadow, and the next. In the end the bright glow faces and Jira turns with a grin.
"Come now, face me! Give me the thrill of primal combat, entertain me as you have proven capable!" she shouts, though the feminine voice has died down considerably in favour of the darker, male tone.
COMBATSYS: Jezebel interrupts Blitzkrieg from Franziska with High Noon.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////// ]
Franziska 1/--=====/=======|===----\-------\0 Varvara
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////// ]
Jira 0/-------/------=|=======\====---\1 Jezebel
America sheds a tear.
Scattering the explosions around Franz, Jezebel lands, forehead sweating. Gripping her arm, she grimaces. Her body was burning, tingling. Whatever was in that psionic blast, it was running through her nervous system. Her hands were twitching, her legs knocking. "I don't... wow! I don't think I can pull through this."
And promptly, she is slapped in the face by a ghost.
Shooting up from the floor, the gauzy figure was clad in a full military uniform; jack boots, bucket helmet, and a belt arms with pair of pistols. Puffing on a cigar, the smoke was hanging in the air. And needless to say, he just slapped Jezebel hard, as Franz was building up her sledgehammer of an attack. Lightning Spangles blinks, stunned by the slap, before looking straight into the undead apparation before her. Being an expert on America, it does not take her long to burst out with the identity of this strange figure.
"General George S. Patton?"
"But I thought you were dead!" The spectral figure floats near her, rolling a cigar in his mouth. "Holy crap you dumb broad. Yes I am dead. But I came here to help you kill some god damn jerries." Lightning Spangles holds up a finger, at a loss of words. "Uh, I mean, I don't think that's very, uh-" "Polite? You think I'd be polite to a nazi bitch like that? Listen toots," Patton pulls the cigar out of his mouth. "All great warriors reincarnate into other great warriors. And now my spirit has come to you, to kill some god damn Blockheads. You think I am gonna like some god damn Huns?" Lightning Spangles glances over to Franz briefly, and then back to the ghost. "I don't think-"
And Patton charges into Jezebel.
The American chokes, coughing violently as Franziska charges in. Falling to her knees, she continues to hack and heave, grabbing her throat. Ripping off the ribbon around her neck, she seems nearly defensely as the german maid comes roaring in. As the first punch comes, she finally clears out what was in her throat. With one last choking cough, a puff of smoke erupts from her mouth.
Followed right by a cigar, chomped down between her teeth.
"HIGH NOON!" Was the scream as she shoots up, taking the first hit squarely in the jaw. Body burning from the psycho-kinetic energy cascading through her, her leg ignites into a fiery explosion, her eyes glowing with AMERICA. Slamming the leg right into Franz's gut, she launches both herself and Franz into the air, rocketing high into the ballroom sky. Spinning in the air, her other leg's heel ignite in blue energy. Aiming it in an aerial roundhouse, she slams the heel straight down at the apex of the launch, spiking Franz hard into the floorboards.
"YEEEEEE HAAAAAAW!"
COMBATSYS: Jira successfully hits Varvara with Nonstop Violence.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////// ]
Franziska 1/--=====/=======|=======\-------\0 Varvara
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////// ]
Jira 0/-------/------=|=======\====---\1 Jezebel
The violence between the two is truly and utterly non-stop. There is something of a tangible, real aura of disconnect where Varvara unleashes such incredible rage upon Jira that the other entranced women whom compete ultimately seem as though they fail to acknowledge - or comprehend - the ruckus that goes on between them. That this sudden rush of adrenaline and haze of anger were something that simply could not possibly exist in the scope it all but explodes outwards in.
Varvara, her emotions having gotten the better of her as nerves were pinched and buttons were pressed, cannot quite seem to comprehend much of anything else. Words are spoken - words she does not quite acknowledge other than her mind picking up the disturbing disconnect in the vocal pitch compared to the observed (and assumed) physical gender of Jira.
As women dance and frolic to try and enjoy the party around a situation that their swayed psyche attempts to convince them does not exist, Varvara staggers to a kneel by that first sweep. Her eyes - hard as they are to see under her mask - do not seem to follow where Jira is going with every shadow-launched strike.
One such strike finally breaks away the blue bird mask that she wears, revealing that (symmetrically) scarred face that always draws a stare, a gawk, a cringe. Parts of her dress fabric tear under the force of every blow, revealing honed muscle of a size and shape not typically socially accepted as appealing (also due largely in part to the unhealthy abuse of certain chemical stimulants, which should never be looked upon favorably to begin with).
Somewhere, she staggers to a table and slams a hand down upon it for stability as she is struck and battered, wind escaping from her lungs as any oxygen she tries to suck in is unceremoniously removed. She still finds the strength to clench said hand - clenching it so tight that the fine centuries-old wood that endures through meticulous upkeep and dark magic at last receives a real wound by her hand, a significant part of a corner crushed into splinters that cut into her hand.
The male, mocking voice stands goading, egging the brutish Greek-Cypirot to step forth and keep fighting. She staggers. She wheezes. She coughs. Her eyes are unfocused. In some steps she doesn't quite clearly move towards them.
Her body aches for oxygen, to take in any sort of air. Bruised, cut, and psychologically exhausted in the wake of a series of confusing blows, it is entirely her fighting instinct that eventually sees her stagger towards where Jira's power given a more suitable physical body stands...
That is where Varvara dares to reach out with both hands, to grab hold of neck and kimono, falling to a kneel and working her superior leverage due to her shorter stature to lift Jira straight up...
"I won't," there's legitimate confusion in her voice. She won't what? It casts an odd contrast to her aggressive body language, an already weak mind struggling to sort any logic and emotions together in a way that doesn't end in just the conscious decision to indulge in what comes naturally to her, simply hurling Jira into the ground before her if she even finds purchase to lift her up to begin with.
From Franziska's point of view, her beloved idol is having a stroke. Or a mental breakdown or something. What ever it is, it's distressing. But she can't pull back now! The show must go on!
Ignorant of the mighty spirit of the conquering war hero that has risen from the grave to empower American's sweetheart with unwavering JUSTICE (tm), she draws in close and unleashes a powerful blow. Her knuckles dig into the soft cheek of the superstar and she instinctively twists her hand, grinding the blow in as hard as possible. Impossibly, however, Jezebel seems completely unphased by the sucker punch and before the German woman has drawn her other fist back to strike again the brilliant burst of renewed patriotic spirit physically strikes true lifting her bodly off the ground.
This time there is no need for added theatrics. Franziska's eyes bulge wide, her expression contorting into a mask of surprise and pain as the air is explosively driven from her lungs. Momentarily stunned, she is completely at the mercy of the sparkly heroine, putting up no resistance at all when the second strike drives her face-first into the floor like a volleyball.
There is an unpleasant thud when Franziska hits the ground and she collapses into an untidy heap, face burrowed into a small crater in the boards with her backside sticking up in an unlady-like fashion. A small wisp of steam rises from her body as the residual chi energy disappates into the air and for a few moments it looks like that might be the end of things right there. Hurray for Ameri- oh wait, she twitched.
Letting out a deep groan, Franziska slowly brings her arms up next to her head and plants her palms on the ground, pushing herself up onto all fours with a great deal of effort. Slowly, she lifts her head to peer up at Jezebel, staring at the other woman blankly for a few moments before climbing back to her feet woozily.
"Ergh... I... may haf underestimated you... Lightning Spangles." A hand goes to her face and she rubs her eyes, blinking a few times to clear the stars from her vision with limited success. Ignoring them for now, she narrows her eyes and summons up her best villainous dramatic tone. "But I haf yet to unleash... my sekret weapon!"
Lifting her arm, the barmaid points her fist into the air and braces herself, leveling it at Jezebel like a rifle. There is a sudden surge of raw energy in the air and the crackling bolts of psychic lightning return to dance about her outstretched limb, spiderwebbing across her skin to gather around her clenched fingers.
"Your Amerikan spirit may haf stopped my blitzkrieg but you cannot defeat superior German engineering! Taste zee power of zee Panzer!"
A sharp explosion sends the accumulated energy around Franziska's hand ripping through air at breakneck speed. The projectile spins and elongates in the handful of moments it takes to cross the small gap between the two fighters, a double helix of energy streams spiraling out behind it like smoke vapor in the wake of the psychic tank shell.
COMBATSYS: Varvara successfully hits Jira with Medium Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
Franziska 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\1 Varvara
[ \\\\\\\\ < > //////////////// ]
Jira 0/-------/---====|=======\====---\1 Jezebel
Jira takes a moment to watch her opponent, almost seeming excited to watch for what will happen after she comes up from that table. Finding herself hoisted up in her reverie and grinning.
"Show me what you can do, let me watch as your violence unfolds." she hardly gives any complaint when thrown to the floor, though she remains unmoving for a few moments. When that movement does happen, it does so with a violent cracking and grinding when her left arm suddenly rises up into the air akin to a puppet being hoisted up by a string with enough force to get to her feet. The arm drops limply and her head turns up, the distressed fabric of her kimono is covered unhealthily in dust and the greenish glow clinging to her flesh is becoming weaker.
"Come on, she has enough for one more, make it count." the voice urges, honestly waiting for the next blow to be struck. Jira's fingers all twitch spastically, then jam into her stomach, against her obi and turn her white, psionic aura inwards. Focusing that flashing, static white through her hands and fingers and back into her body.
"Entertain me, you wonderful goddess of violence."
COMBATSYS: Franziska successfully hits Jezebel with Panzerfaust.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
Franziska 0/-------/----===|=======\-------\1 Varvara
[ \\\\\\\\ < > /////// ]
Jira 0/-------/---====|>>>>>>>\>>>>>>>\2 Jezebel
Here comes the power.
As Jezebel lands, she was puffing on that cigar. Upon her face, was now a five-o-clock shadow. Her jaw was squared now, more squared than ever. And her arms were bulkier than ever. Puffing away, her teeth were gritted. It was as if she was possessed.
It was because she was possessed.
And yet, as Franziska come back, she rolls the cigar to the other side of the mouth. "Come on, you god damn Kraut! Get on up!" She belts out, cracking her neck. Already, she was closing in on her opponent, thundering forward like a train, cigar like a stovepipe. Roaring in, she is almost on Franz as she rips out her energy blast. She turns to slip past it...
But takes it full on.
The bullet launches her right to the ceiling. Smashing through the chandelier, she becomes entangled in it. With a groan, the chandelier falls to the ground, scattering fire and glass amongst the floor. And amongst it all, skirt torn to shreds, corset nearly burst, was Lightning Spangles. There is silence in the room. Uncomfortable silence. And then, the heap of American mutters.
"... You magnificant bastard, I read your book!"
Staggering up, Lightning Spangle rises, cigar wrecked down to a smolding butt. And yet, she was moving, she was roaring, and worst of all, she was not slowing down. "You damn nazi bitch, I was eating those POS's you called Panzers before you were even a damn memory in your momma's pants!" Jezebel growls, with unusual manliness. In fact, upon the heaving bosom of her corset, a tuft of deep mousy brown hair had puffed up. Roaring forward, she leaps right in front of Franziska. "I have half a mind to kick you all the way to Berlin, you Hitler-kissing whore-"
And winding a leg back....
COMBATSYS: Jezebel successfully hits Franziska with A Few Dollars More.
CSYS: This exciting moment brought to you by German-American Relations!!
[ \\\\ < > /////////// ]
Franziska 0/-------/=======|=======\-------\1 Varvara
[ \\\\\\\\ < > ////// ]
Jira 0/-------/---====|>>>>>--\-------\0 Jezebel
"But first, I need to talk about something."
The kick stops. The body hair disappears. The cigar pops out. And for a moment, the ghost of Patton slips out. Jezebel turns around, facing away from Franziska. And faces towards you! Or perhaps Varvara and Jira. "Listen, pardners, I know I've been really laying on the Anti-German sentiments throughout this fight. But there is something really I need to make clear."
Jezebel turns around, and with a powerful kick, punts the German straight in the air.
Turning back around, she walks aside, where a German flag was now set up. "Germany is a wonderful country, and one of the United States most loyal allies. Anti-Germanic slurs and hatred is not only poisonous, but is highly disrespectful to the rich German heritage that was brought over by German immigration. So while I have been showing myself as strongly anti-German, please remember that it is just a show, and don't let my strong patriotic nature drive you to dismissing other cultures. Especially German ones." Quietly, Jezebel nods to the ghost of Patton. Patton dabs a manly tear from his eye with a hanky. And with a nod from him, the duo merge together, just in time for Fransiska to fall back to earth. And with an floor-filling explosion, she unleashing a finishing snap kick, bursting into a cloud of fireworks.
In the shape of both the German and American flags, crossing in unison.
Bit by bit, piece by piece, the fine garments endowed upon the Greek-Cypirot wrestler seem to tear. Disintegrate. The (unfortunate) trademark scent of an individual of poor personal hygiene was never masked by the new threads that had been mysteriously draped around her. The individual bits of dirt and grime that clung to her skin before the transformation of her wardrobe were never removed. Where silk peels away, the familiar (gross, dirty, really needs to be washed for like a week straight) tunic-like top returns as though, strangely, it were being worn under all that to begin with. It is as though some elements of her person could not truly ever be concealed by those forces that be.
Before the ghastly sight of the kimono-clad THING (by what little recollection Varvara can really collect to start with), the disgust and fear that form a lump in her throat can't climb up too high. What breath she takes, what awareness she musters, all routes itself to the routine of martial technique she has had drilled into her over time. Her hands raise upward again, palms facing outward and bent at the wrist downwards, one knee bent and raised slightly. The traditional fighting stance of pankration.
To the goading, to the praises, to the titles, ignorant of the great theatrics that go on behind her as matters of a conflict that has ended years ago (and very important lessons about cultural sensitivity)... Varvara sucks in air, eyes narrowed to a slit even as blood drips from one of her palms every so often. She fights the numbness throughout her body from the ravages of what injuries she has taken.
Defiantly, she stands not as a demure, submissive woman to the appeal of a noble looking for their latest fling, but as an individual. An individual with wants, with desires - simple as they may be, base as they are, ambitions being as she's always been driven by.
They are hers.
The party behind her is paid no mind, as she utters but one word that is traditionally more a greeting.
"Erroso," she says aloud in her native tongue with a clarity that should not be, given the exhaustion of overworked muscles and oxygen-deprived lungs. It is the only word she has to give them.
Tensing her hands into fists and bringing forearms up to her defensively, she moves in on the mysterious kimono-clad individual with purpose, paradoxically incorporating that defensive posture with a forward movement to get right up to her.
Her body flashes an odd yellow flickering light - a trick of the moonlight that seeps through? - as she draws back a leg before sweeping it outward across the foor with a grunt. She cannot really muster a shout.
A great gust of wind forms around her foot as she sweeps, perhaps a testament to what strength she can muster in it... or simply just how the power of the planet courses through her when she expresses it, looking to simultaneously sweep and overwhelm what to her is no longer a mere frightening abomination above and beyond her level of understanding.
It is simply something in the way of what she truly desires, dealt with in the way she only knows how.
"Kya ha ha ha!"
Franziska's grating laugh fills the empty ballroom, replacing the vacuous atmosphere with an overwrought display of satisfaction. Victory is hers! No one could survive such an attack at point blank, surely even America's greatest symbol of freedom and patriotism couldn't withstand such a blow.
"And now you understand zee folly of oppozing zee might of zee empire!"
But- what's this?!
The barmaid's haughty smirk falters as the rubble stirs once more, her breath catching in her throat. When Lightning Spangles rises from the wreckage, she takes a step back in shock and dismay, shaking her head slowly.
"Nein! Zat is impossible!"
Coming now to the final confrontation, it is clear in Franziska's mind how this battle must end. While she has enjoyed her moment in the spotlight it is her job - no - her DUTY as a true fan of American spirit to let things play out as history demands. Steeling herself to reap the whirlwind from the seeds of challenge that she planted, the German takes up a loose combat stance, a grim look on her face.
But first an important PSA about cultural acceptance.
Franziska blinks and stares in abject confusion when the attack stops short but her dismay is quickly replaced with giddy enthusiasm once she realizes what is happening. That's what this show was missing - important messages for th-WHAM.
Caught by surprise when Jezebel turns to kick, she flies straight up into the air as if launched from a springboard. Again, while her body might be able to withstand such punishment, it isn't exactly a wonderful experience but she grins and bears it for the sake of a proper ending. Drifting lazily to a stop at the apex of her short aerial trip, Franziska grunts and flips over, crossing her arms over her chest so that when the final blow comes down her heart doesn't explode like the fireworks.
Despite the pain, Franziska can't help but feel a swelling of deep pride and accomplishment as the flags intertwine in the air above her. She stares at them in silent admiration before remembering that she's supposed to be defeated now; not that she needs to do much faking at this point.
"Such... amazing tolerance und cultural spirit. How could I haf been so blind? Zee day is yours... Lightning Spangles, the All American Hero."
With her final lines delivered, Franziska slumps over on the ground, one hand over her heart in the American salute.
COMBATSYS: Franziska has left the fight here.
[ \\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
Jira 0/-------/---====|-------\-------\0 Varvara
> ////// ]
|>>>>>--\-------\0 Jezebel
COMBATSYS: Varvara successfully hits Jira with EX Swollen Foot.
[ < > /////////// ]
Jira 1/------=/=======|-------\-------\0 Varvara
> ////// ]
|>>>>>--\-------\0 Jezebel
COMBATSYS: Jira successfully aids herself with Knit.
[ \\\ < > /////////// ]
Jira 1/------=/=======|-------\-------\0 Varvara
> ////// ]
|>>>>>--\-------\0 Jezebel
The theatrics and swearing, all the violence and combat sends visible shuddering through Jira's form. Yet, perplexion becomes paramount at the brief disclaimer, an honest look of confusion. A wounded, heavy breathing gives away the barely conscious nature of the woman's body, and before she can comment about what the hell germany is, her legs are kicked out and she faceplants. A slow, steady exhale spills out oonto the floor before the body jerks up unnaturally, eyes half lidded and glowing an ominous red while a final flash of psycho energy pours out in a strobelike crescendo.
"That is very, veeeeeeery good. Now, let me dance with you, with Everyone in this accursed room before I drag my little puppet out of this wonderful place of battle." she says, but so far gone is the feminine tone that only the haunting, ghostly male voice rumbles out. She is pulled to her feet with a heavy shrug, then wildly flung to the muscled, greek goddess of violence. Hands clumsily, unnaturally seeking another entwining of fingers while all four of her limbs shine and shimmer with white psionic power. Beneath the pouring of energy her muscles spasm violently, struggling to keep with the output as she makes a quick clockwise twirl and swings her left arm out, sending a screaming wave crashing into the crowd. Dipping forward and kicking her left leg upwards and sending out a howling crescent behind her. Her back straightens out and snaps her to standing upright, still gripping her opponent. Suddenly she backsteps and releases the grip of Varvara's left hand with her own right, then pulling the girl in with a spiral of her own wiith her right leg sweeping low and violently tearing another wave of tormented energy into the hall. Then, pressing up to the other woman's back and leaning in close.
"My wonderful partner this night, I hope that others will see you for the beautiful vessel of violence you are." the quiet whisper quivers with exhaustion and excitement from that decidedly male voice, then releases Varvara from the hold and swings her right arm and that last charge of energy right for her back before she collapses backwards with a lazy turn barely making her land on her stomach with a girlish whimper. Strung along by some unseen force, her unconscious body is pulled away by some outside exertion in a slow crawl. Her muscles 'deflate' to their normal tone and Jira's defeat is made.
COMBATSYS: Jira can no longer fight.
> /////////// ]
|-------\-------\0 Varvara
> ////// ]
|>>>>>--\-------\0 Jezebel
And with that, Franz is defeated.
With the final kick, Jezebel holds up a V for victory onwards, letting her German opponent take the fall with a thump. It was not a physical victory, however. It was a spiritual victory, and cultural victory. It was not Jezebel who conquered Franziska today.
It was America.
As the German falls with a hand over her heart, and a full salute, Lightning Spangles returns the salute, tears in her eyes. "God Bless You, my German Friend!" And with that, she grabs her stomach. "Oh. Oh dear." She mutters. And with that, she begins to cough horribly. "What's the matter?" She says to herself, the spirit of Patton taking over. "I don't, I mean, I don't smoke!" She then says aloud.
And promptly, she begins to throw up ectoplasm.
Even Lightning Spangles can OD on AMERICA.
COMBATSYS: Jezebel gives y'all a free turn!
> /////////// ]
|-------\-------\0 Varvara
> ///// ]
|=====--\-------\0 Jezebel
COMBATSYS: Varvara blocks Jira's Demonsdance.
> ////// ]
|==-----\-------\0 Varvara
> ///// ]
|=====--\-------\0 Jezebel
Varvara's arms still hold a defensive posture in the wake of that decisive chi-laden kick, even as the rest of her starts to buckle and bow under strain. It almost comes to naught when the hands of... whoever, whatever Jira is reach around hers, to the invitation to dance.
Her protests are barely anything more than grunts and coughs. The way Jira's body moves does not match her (admittedly, very extensive) understanding of how human bodies should bend, flex, and otherwise animate. Every wave of that horrid, uncomfortable white energy that courses through the feast of the damned sees her make some kind of effort to resist being yanked, pulled about. It's just enough for her to stay on her feet, though she tugs rather hard. It likely throws off some movement timing here and there, in minute and subtle ways that give her more agency to hold steady even as psionic power invades her very senses.
The eloquence of her dance partner is not met with much in turn - she tenses and gasps just as her back is exposed to the creature that Jira had become. Her hair stands on end - fear. One could taste it. Vaguely flirtatious banter is not met with a coquettish wink nor a blushing smile.
Yet, the words ring and echo. The beautiful vessel of violence--
Either a nerve is struck, or the way she suddenly turns to thrust a fist at a final charge of energy that ultimately deflects her from punching the inhuman Japanese woman outright sees her staggering back, enough to watch Jira's body be yanked along by... odd... unnatural means.
Varvara shudders as that unforgettable, frightening creature leaves - for one who seems to eschew so much of proper polite civilization and its conceits, she cannot see them as anything more than an odd creature that talks. Her back is turned to the lot of them - to the other women who continue to play their little game to be picked to stand at a powerful man's side. To a woman who has had a little too much America, for one time.
The voice beckons in her head anew. She can feel cloth start to caress her forearm, as though an unseen force were to help her put back on an expensive, pretty dress. A demand, veiled under words that sound as silk. She is desired. She could be the one.
She casts a look at last, as though they were to be enthralled anew. To watch other women appear content to be... strung about, to simply parade around and just be The One. The One, who will be Chosen. By chance, by the whimsy of another.
What new cloth attempts to reform around her to bring her back into the fold suddenly ages, and crumbles to dust, to be cast away. All this, to a thought she somehow manages in her exhaustion to say with some degree of coherence.
"I don't want this." She says aloud. "I don't want you."
Your every desire to find stability, to no longer debase yourself as you do - comfort. Safety. To spend the rest of your life by--
She frowns, and tenses a fist already bloodied. She gives it a look. Her own two hands. Rough, shapen by hardship, honed to be her means of getting ahead in the world. She knows what she wants. That voice... might, too.
Come back. I insist. You are an honored guest. What could you possibly wan--
She looks away, and walks out the double doors with but a single declaration.
"I'm hungry," she says aloud to those who might listen. It's a long trip down. The voice may grow more insistent. She pays it heed no longer. She turns her back to a glimpse of a world of idle deferrence to a single power that dictates everything, that demands utmost devotion and obedience to them.
Back down to a familiar world, a familiar life of scraping on by, dirtying herself with every fight, with every rough job by shady people to give her sustenance. The difference being, a living - if barely qualifying as that - by her own two hands.
Her choice to leave of her own mind and will is a silent invitation to Lightning Spangles, and whoever else, to do the very same.
COMBATSYS: Varvara resumes wandering.
> ///// ]
|=====--\-------\0 Jezebel
There came applause just then, from the throngs of debutantes and snooty spectral, phantasm noble women. It seems they enjoyed the show the same as anyone, but one amongst them was not amused. Not by the fight, not by these jackasses, not by getting lost on his way up to destroy a vampire, and certainly not at what had happened to his outfit.
In place of his Motorhead shirt and blue jeans, there was instead a navy blue sort of uniform, tight and constricting, with light khaki tights ending in big black boots that started at the knee.
In place of the heavyweight title around his waist and the other, smaller title slung around his shoulder, there were instead medals upon medals, pinned to the breast of his military jacket.
In place of the duffelbag of weapons all chosen carefully and specifically to do the most damage to an undead jackass, there instead was a fine saber sheathed at his side.
But most unforgivable was his mask. In place of his hockey mask, there instead was the gaudiest of gaudy, a flimsy skull mask, looking more like what someone would wear at a fancy ball, rather than in a real fight.
Granted, this was a fancy ball and not a fight, save for the catfight that ended in Jezebel ghostpuking in the corner, but still.
Mick made his way past the crowd, shoving quite a few ghosts through a few walls, and when one vampire bitch turned around to hiss, she found herself quickly flung aside by her neck, being casually launched out an open window, and down to the earth hundreds of feet below. "Aiiiiiiiiieeeeee!"
Mick didn't care, just looking down at Jezebel, his well-combed and parted black hair making him feel like a jackass, and the black eyeshadow? The less said of that the better.
"Hey, get up pukey. Where the fuck am I?"
"Uuuuuhn...."
That was the sound that was made, when Lightning Spangles lifts her head up from the upchucking. Jira and Franz were smoldering. Varvara was.... hunting for food? And that pile of glowing blue slime was what was left of General Patton. Body hair sprinkling off, she was groggy, and at the end of her rope.
And suddenly MURDERHOUSE.
Stagging up, the woman was in tatters. Her skirt was ruined, her corset was getting undone, and the peacock feather in her hair was broken. Looking at the... not... well. Well it might be a knight in shining armor. Looking bleary eyed at MURDERHOUSE, the beaten, dazed form of Jezebel tries to muster rational thoughts. And unfortunately, her brain musters the opposite of that. "Oh," She begins, with that thick Texan drawl. "I'm Lightning Spangles! You are at the castle of Count Demetri! We are all fighting to earn his romantic favor!" The actress pauses.
"... Are... you Count Demetri?"
"Why, do I look like a piece of shit? I'm on my way to kick his ass for inviting me here, got lost with all these jackasses in dresses running around, and now I look like Admiral Uptight. What in the hell is going on around here?!"
Mick had been privy to some weird stuff in his time on the fighting circuit, things so weird that a man throwing blue fireballs with his hands wasn't even looked on as 'strange'. But all the weirdness all around them here tonight, it was making the hairs on the back of Mick's neck stand up. And that was a surefire way to piss him the hell off.
"Lightning Spangles? Hey, you're the one on that shitty show, right? On TV?"
Oh, that broke that spell.
Lightning Spangles' face turns bright red. The daze is gone. "Now hold it right there pardner! I only give the highest quality television this side of the Rio Grande!" She points a finger right at the masked fighter, before unleashing a pained cough. The pile of blue slime quivers. Swallowing hard, she forces herself to go into the defensive stance of Tae Kwon Do.
"Now, you better plum apologize to me, before I do something I might regret!"
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE has joined the fight here.
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MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-------|=====--\-------\0 Jezebel
Mick was like a shark, and her stance clued him in that there was definite blood in the water. For his part, he didn't go anywhere, didn't even change his stance. His arms remained at his sides, his feet remained in their lazy, casual stance, and he tilted his head, curiously looking down at the sight before him. Her dress ripped, ghostpuke still all over the place, and she seriously looked like she'd just gotten her ass kicked. In short, shark he might have been, but even the Deathmatch King, the Sultan of MURDER, the Bishop of Barbwire "MURDERHOUSE" Mick, even this gruesome icon knew when unfair was unfair.
"You don't wanna do this, little girl. Walk away, make another duet episode with that Australian bitch who can't rap. You don't wanna get into this with me, that's for damn sure."
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE takes no action.
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MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/-------|=====--\-------\0 Jezebel
MMick was right.
Lightning Spangles was not right.
"Wh-wh-what is the matter with you?" She stammers. "You've insulted me, and my profession! I am considered a high-quality cult icon amongst children and adults!" She explains, louder and louder. "You if you don't want to fight, then apologize! And if you don't want to apologize, fight! I don't even know who you are, or why you are here, but one thing is for certain!"
And Lightning Spangles steps in.
"I won't be swallowing another Army General!"
And with that, she attempts to grab Mick by his arm and shoulder, and swing him right around to those giggling vampire ladies.
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE counters Strong Throw from Jezebel with Chaos Theory.
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MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/------=|=======\-------\1 Jezebel
When she screamed at him, he merely rolled his neck to let the bones crackle, and let his arms and hands go limp, the big MURDERTOOLS covered in white gloves that didn't feel right on him, not at all.
This? This felt right. The woman might have been a hell of a fighter(Mick had no idea, nor did he care), but she was hurt, she was banged up, and she was trying to grab a pro wrestler. This was bad. For her, this was bad.
Mick instantly, and instinctively, grabbed her hand by the wrist, ducking under her guard and 'wrenching' her arm with all his considerable leverage and power, giving her shoulder, bicep and her bones and joints some agony to keep her company. Standing behind her, he decided to give her a little extra 'spice' by throwing up a solid kick, the toe of his thick leather boot connecting with that shoulder joint perfectly.
Not one to leave it at 'kill', Mick kicks it into 'over' by wrenching that arm behind her as he runs in to grab at her waist. From here it was child's play to hoist her up over his shoulder, and to fall backwards, suplexing her hard on her shoulder that was being wrenched and attacked, and with her arm pinned and 'chickenwinged' behind her, that was gonna do some damage for some time.
"I told you, little girl. You shoulda listened."
This was not a good idea.
As Lightning Spangles reaches to grab the bigger man, it does not take long for her to suddenly find her wrist grabbed. And just as quickly, wrenched hard. The arm is twisted, and dislocated hard. She inhales painfully. But that's nothing when compared to the big boot going straight to the shoulder. Letting out a final groan of pain, she is outright lifted up into the air, still wrenched up hard, before slammed down into a Chickenwing Backdrop.
She doesn't move after that.
The ballroom is silent. Even the three madames are silent from the parlour. Four bride to bes came in. And only MURDERHOUSE was standing. He was done with the supernatural. He was done with the weird.
And the pile of slime suddenly rises up.
Taking the form of General Patton, the ghostly specter looks around briefly, and snaps his fingers. "Dammit son! You knocked out all the dames! What in the god damn name did you do that for! I was hoping to possess one of them to be the Count's bride tonight! Do you wanna know how lonely it is in the afterlife? Now how the hell am I supposed to get with a vampire tonight-"
The slime ghost of General Patton focuses on MURDERHOUSE.
"Son, I need your body, and I need it now."
COMBATSYS: Jezebel gives y'all a free turn!
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MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Jezebel can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
MURDERHOUSE 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: MURDERHOUSE has ended the fight here.
Log created on 18:29:16 08/10/2014 by Varvara, and last modified on 22:17:57 08/12/2014.