Shards in the Sand

[Miraqariftsky]

The radiance of twilight paints the waters of the River of the Dawn in a wash of bloody hues. The sun sinks into the West and the horizon bleeds.

The now-ruddy reeds sway in a zephyr whilst a pair of papyrus-and-balsa wood fishing vessels rock in the river's soft-flowing eddies, dragging between them a heavy-laden net throbbing with leaping fishes. A wide river-barge seemingly waddles into port, its hold literally moaning with a fresh batch of slaves. The docks bustle with burly workers loading and unloading stocks, merchants and peddlers and traders alike inspecting wares and conducting what business they could.

Beyond the cluster of meagre shanties that constitute the neighbourhood of fisherfolk and dockworkers, there stand whitewashed houses in row upon sooty row. Smoke billows out from smithies and from cooking grilles. Dozens of voices with one another war, hawking their wares.

"Kuuur-ye-vah! Kuryeva silks fer the fine lady!"

"Steel swords and spears from Sembia, ya can't get better'n that!"

"Orcs an' dwarves fresh from the Northlands! Gettem while thar still fresh!"

"Ogres! One o' mine is worth ten o' theirs!"

"Slaves in bulk, mass-produced! Easy, cheap labour!"

"Whores! Whores! Gonnan son of Gannon sells only the best! Ten gold an hour!"

At the very heart of the town there sprawls the tented and awninged sand-pit that is Gydrun's famed gladiatorial arena. Dust rises from the stamping, shuffling feet of the fighters therein, the clang of steel on steel rising to unweeping heavens. A warrior falls, a warrior triumphs, but their cries are hollow as they are swallowed by the roaring of a bloodthirsty crowd.

Even beyond that, standing on a hill, the only land in Gydrun that still remains untouched by the mystical desertification induced by the Blightbringer cult is a small ridge on which are built the estates of the wealthiest of merchants. Their architecture is that of a decadent bygone era yet still folk fear to tread there because of their reverence for the moneyed nobles.

The dying sunlight glints scarlet on the spearheads of the sentries patrolling the battlements of the fortified town. Red and brown there flutter in the breeze, their liveried cloaks and tabards.

The last convoy of bedraggled merchants and dusty travelers file into the Gryphon Gate on the east wall. Guards check through their belongings, making sure there are no contraband or anything else suspicious... Those who get in quickly are those who grease the palms of the guards with gold.

Kept at spearpoint away from the travelers, away from the gate, are the residents of Leper's Lot. They are the the diseased and the plague-ridden... their faces are blasted with boils and pus coats their flesh, their skin flaking away, leaving bare muscle... They are the offal-cleaners and the undertakers... the untouchables of society.

A colony of crocodiles basks on the far bank in the last rays of heat, scraps of man-flesh still strewn amongst them. A half-eaten face with a sereies of concentric circles tattooed onto a bald pate screams silently into the muck of its own gore.

In the barrens beyond the city, a little farther off than Leper's Lot, there sprawl the ruins of an ancient age. Toppled temples and torn-open tombs crop up in the fast-darkening valley. A pair of weathered statues to Horus-Re glare at Gydrun impotently, guarding the entrance to a certain tomb where not only the dead reside...

[Sir Shadow]

A few beams of sunlight streamed through the thatched roof. It was cool inside the hut; the mud walls kept out the heat and held onto the chill of night. The air was filled with the smell of water, moss, and decaying plants. The river could be faintly heard rushing in its course outside.

Abek'ma stirred into wakefulness and turned in his sleeping bag. A strange smile graced his lips as he sat up and stretched. He glanced around the one-room shanty and noticed a clay bowl of water with a rag beside him, apparently laid out by Gannan. Taking the rough rag he dipped it in the water and wrung it out before scrubbing his body; it felt good to rid himself of the dirt and sweat from the past day. When he was finished he took a razor from Gannan's belonging, he knew its location from previous uses, and used it to remove stubble from head to toe wherever it sprouted.

Next reached into a bag that lay beside his bed and began pulling out articles of clothing. First, he slipped on a plain tan pair of breeches which he secured with a large brown belt decorated with three pale moonstones. The breaches were followed by a thin undershirt and the chainmail shirt that went over it. Next, two black gloves were pulled on and a tan cloak with silver trim was tied on. Lastly, a black mask was taken from the bag. The mask was rather plain with crosses as holes for the eyes and mouth. Instead of wearing it proper, he placed it atop his bald head and pulled his cloak's hood up. He would pull the mask over his face when he had need of it or its magic. It was by far, just too odd to wear casually.

Leaving the hut, Abek'ma made his way through the forest of shanties that made up the majority of the dockworkers' housings. In a short time he was passing though the lanes of white houses. Despite the encroaching dark there were a few merchants with their clients making last-minute transactions before they closed up shop. Nothing in particular caught his eye, and even if it did, he was growing low on funds. So low, in fact, that soon he may be forced to petty mugging, or worse, mercenary work.

-----

Things were progressing at a snail's pace. He had discovered several clusters of Set's worshipers but nothing promising. Even if they were spectacular, he was not sure what would be done. Eliciting funds would be his first priority, but he doubted they had the means to assist him in the acquisition of usable bodies, or the necessary cash to create undead.

Slavers were quite ubiquitous, but they did not trust him. As well they shouldn't, he thought bitterly to himself. If they only knew the real reason I was so interested, they'd be calling the guard. That was another point he was getting very tired of. The so-called "guard", despite their own illegal activities, kept the peace in their own way. He, unfortunately, did not have the funds to bribe them.

In the end, it all came down to money. Money. Money. Money.

[Philistine]

Lucky Crane

As the sun touches the horizon, the merchant Verru Akkash packs up his wares and prepares to return to the Hart's Ease for the evening. A quartet of porters do the actual lifting and carrying under the merchant's supervision, while the three guards still on retainer do their best to enforce a small buffer zone against the thronging crowds. The small procession moves haltingly through the bustling streets, pausing now and again to avoid being run over by the passage of larger or more heavily armed groups. As the twilight dwindles, they finally arrive safely at the Inn; and as the merchant and porters enter, one of the guards taps his fellows on the shoulders and nods his leavetaking.

Another day over, Mitsuo, the guard thinks as he walks back toward the arena, scowling fiercely. Some nights the matches go on by torchlight even after the sun has set. Another day of standing around, trying to frighten poor children so that they do not become thieves. Another handful of coin in your purse. Yet - at the end of this day, are you more ready to return and face Gombei again than you were yesterday? His eyes tighten further. No. No, you are not. So, another day wasted. And now, back to watch the fighters at the arena, again. The going is much easier now than it was with the merchant and his goods - most passersby flinch away from his grim visage, giving him a clear path. Do you think this will help you achieve justice for your family? There is nothing in this place for you but more wasted time. You should leave the merchant's service and move on.

[Rashmi]

Velsar

In a small Balcony of the Sand pit Velsar sat quietly. Some of the fighters showed promise, but not many. He had already sold of many of his slaves, even some of his usual "protectors" after sending them through a few fights to get a better price.

But no he was missing his usual train of pets. It was so lonely without someone decent to keep him occupied.

"Isn't this gruesome though, to see these people die for the entertainment of these savages?"

What a tiresome woman. It was probably time to get rid of her.

Sometimes people must die for others. That is the way of the world.

He turned back to the battle at hand:

(DM or anyone else could post here, I could be watching anyone else fight if someone else plans to start in the arena.)

[Mantid]

Ochieng

Ocheing walked among the living dead. The leapers and untouchables, ravaged like the sun-scorched and half-eaten corpses of the barren desserts. Those who weren't dealing with the waste and refuse of the city where crowded along the roads, begging for scraps to maintain their lingering existence. Ocheing remained with those along the road, his face hidden by bandages, his clothes, ravaged by sun and sand, blended with the tattered raiment of the beggars.

He listened.

He wasn't sure what had brought him back to Thay. Was it just a lingering desire for home, however deplorable and retched it may have been? Was there some need to settle affairs with a father he didn't know? Did some part of him, deep down, think he could stand against his former masters and help those still in slavery? He couldn't deny the possibility that the only reason he feel the need to return was because of the magical mark on his arm. Perhaps it implanted the desire so any of the escaped slaves would one day return.

So he listened.

News would reach him. The travelers talked as they passed by, the guards muttered to one another, and the leapers, despite their appearance, knew things. It was amazing what information garbage and corpses could provide. It was only a matter of time before something reached his ears that would spark his interest and guide him to the next step in his long journey.

[de-trick]

Dirk

The veteran gladiator starts his day the same as normal, he rises with the sun, trains with the gladiators till midday, eats his gruel, which they say is eatable, and trains some more. Dirk may just be 20 floods old, he walks with a limp and receives the respect of a sage from the gladiators. The scars of his mistakes and close calls, tell the story that could of ended dirks life, it is only by pure luck Dirk has survived this long.

--------------------

YOUR DOING IT WRONG, IF YOU DO IT THAT WAY YOU'D CUT YOUR HANDS OFF Dirk, screams at a new pupil who was training to parry a blow

Ill do how I want, i dont need you to tell me what to do

really, have you ever faced 4 men fully armored who surrounded you, and all you had were 2 dirks

No, I havent....but The pupil swings his wooden sword at Dirk
In a split second Dirk pulls our one of his swords, and cuts the wooden training sword in half.

Do you really want to test my skills

No, I'm sorry sirThe young gladiator kneels on the ground and starts begging and asking for forgiveness

----------------

at the gladiatorial match

Its a art, and to see how well men will listen and can be taught, see that one in the defensive position, i had told him multiple times about how to keep his sword up when trying to block a blow, but he incests that he must hold it like that......and you see ive told him that his hand would be cut off

the gladiators hand who he was training earlier before hand hits the ground, he screams in pain and is soon beheaded, by his opponent

[Miraqariftsky]

Twilight over the Thayan town of Gydrun...
In the Arena...

The stubborn swordsman's head hits the sand, his visage fixed forever into eyes wide with shock and disbelief, mouth hanging agape in one last scream of pain, nostrils flaring, trying to take in one last breath. Blood fountains from the neck and then gushes forth like wine from a broken amphora when the victorious opponent kicks the body down.

The crowd, seated on the rising stone bleachers and wooden benches that form the coliseum, explodes into the usual cacophony after a match. Fans of the victor cheer wildly, their fists pumping in the air. Supporters of the vanquished cry out in rage. Those who are in it not only for the blood but also for the sport of the combat boo the fallen warrior for his too-easy defeat. Beneath all the yelling are grumblings and snickerings as money changes hands with the conclusion of gamblers' bets. Here and there are heard fists smacking into faces or blades stabbing into flesh as sore losers mete out their vengeance and thieves purloin the corrupt of their coin and breath.

The winning warrior is a lean, almost scrawny man of Mulhorand. Though his flesh still clearly bears the vitality of youth, it seems like it is dried parchment or old leather stretched over a sharp frame. His head is shaven bald and his eyes are deep-sunken. His smile is a snarl and in acknowledgment of his audience, he lifts high his khopesh, that sickle-sword still dripping with its ghastly harvest.

The last rays of mighty Re die down over the distant horizon. Darkness falls across the land in that hour bereft of light when even the faintest stars have yet to wake and make their march across the blackened firmament, ruled by Apepi the Night-Serpent.

Suddenly, the dead man's fingers twitch. His eyes blink and his jaw works up and down in silent shock.

The killer does not see, apparently, the travesty that unfolds at his very feet. His victim's chest heaves not with breath but slowly, it turns, flips around with aching slowness but with growing confidence.

The corpse pushes off the ground with sepulchral silence, kneeling, then standing. The virgin blades rise in cold, cold hands.

A gasp goes up from the astonished crowd. The bald fighter, seeing something amiss, hops away from where he knows his victim to have been and just on a hunch, spins about and brings his sword down in a heavy overhead hack. The blade plunges in, deep into the chest. Blood flows but sluggishly.

There is, though, nothing slothful about the corpse's reaction. The twin blades that failed to parry now stab deep into the gut of the other man and then they rip free, his entrails pouring out in a steaming pile.

With a couple of sickly pops, a pair of large batwings pop out of the severed head's ears and lift it up off the ground. A hellish light burns in those damned eyes. Fangs sprout from that blasted maw and an incredibly long forked scarlet tongue shoots out, tasting the air. The hideous thing, in unison with what had once been his body, orients itself on Dirk.

Flapping high into the night, it circles around his one-time tormentor. Behind, on the scarlet-stained sands, the two corpses are now charging at him with all the martial skill that they had had in life...

The crowd has long since fled, screaming it abject terror. Amongst them, sowing horror and havoc are several murdered gamblers, leaping at people they catch and, like rabid apes and tearing them apart.

At the sight of the horrid abominations, Velsar's consort shrieks shrilly and then faints, her limp body draped over his lap. Scenting easy prey, one of the monstrosities veers that way, bounding over the bleachers like a baboon over boulders. Its face is that of a fat man with abysmally black eyes, with bloody froth spewing from its champing jaws. Long claws protrude from hands that had once grubbed about with mere gold and gewgaws.

Spoiler

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Roll Initiative, yo.

Fat Freak (1d20+4)[7]

Head (1d20+12)[15]
Body (1d20+4)[21]
Other Corpse (1d20+4)[22]

---------------

((Update is still under construction. Other segments still upcoming. I have run out of energy))

[Rashmi]

Velsar

Int: (1d20+1)[14]

Velsar grabs his hold of the weight in his lap and leaps off the balcony. His elegant silk shirt bursts as black leathery wings fold out, allowing him to glide down to the arena floor, visibly straining under the weight.

When he reaches the floor he drops his baggage and folds his wings back against his back.

[de-trick]

you'd think they'd keep the trainers in the loop, well this looks interesting, i would of never saw this coming

Dirk stands up from his set and and is shocked of how the simple fight has turned south, he then decides he must enter the fray. Quickly he grabs his pair of twin swords and hops over the railing into the arena, once again his life is on the line, in the arena, but this time he must fight something that is not alive, and not normal

initiative(1d20+8)[23]



(curse you nexus, secound post and we're in a fight.)

[Philistine]

Lucky Crane

From his vantage at the rear of the crowd, Lucky Crane is at first unable to see what the fuss is about - the death of yet another gladiator is hardly remarkable enough to cause such a stir. It isn't until the fallen fighter's severed head flies up into view on its newly-formed wings that the sudden shrieks of panic and the crowd's stampede away from the arena become explicable. Sorcery, or worse. I should leave as well. Instead, thgouh, he ducks into a sheltered spot beneath the bleachers rather than trying to fight against the tide of terrified humanity, stepping out again after the crowd has passed and moving to the low wall separating the spectators from the arena floor. He draws his sword and brandishes it overhead, shouting wordlessly.

Spoiler

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Initiative: (1d20+5)[22]

[bchilders]

Roondar

Roondar sitsin the audience at the gladitorial arenalike normal carefully watching the two combatants begin their fight. He knows them both from the training yards and has bet substantially on the one he believes will win. At first he joins in with the crowds cheering, more for his acquisition of more funds than excitement at seeing the bloody end, but his cheers stick in his throat as he sees the fallen gladiator start to rise. As the crowd around him begins to flee, he notices the target of the undead creatures asa veteran of the training yards. Dirk....or something like that. Roondar's blades appear in his hands as if by magic as he rushes off to intercept the undead beasts.

Spoiler

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Initiative:(1d20+6)[26]

[Miraqariftsky]

Just after twilight...

In Lepers' Lot...

The cold wind of the desert night skirls around the squalid sprawl of tents and hovels, blowing still-warm sand about and disrupting those of the diseased dwellers who are beginning to start cooking their dismal dinners. Tattered rags of canvas and clothing billow in the gusts but the fester-faced folk pay them no heed.

Boils and pus-oozing blisters plaster burlap burnooses and ragged robes to blighted bodies. Frail, flaking flesh ache with every motion yet still they persevere, a stubborn, unflinching determination to live blazing in their bloodshot eyes.

Ochieng sits on a stone in the sand or walks among the living dead, his face dissolving into that faceless throng. His nose catches whiffs of strangers, his ears hear voices from far-flung lands and places near. Listening, he finds many things are changed in this wicked and wondrous world...

A passel of priests of Ilmater had stopped by the colony earlier in the afternoon, spending some time setting up a stone shrine and tending to the fester-folks' hurts. Their sermons as usual glorified the people's suffering, saying that it was a purgation of impurity, that pain purifies the soul. In contrast with many clerics who passed through their little town of tents, these men apparently kept true to what they preached. None of them asked for payment for their services and they shared meals with even the lowliest of lepers.

These outlanders' ministry is not without the news of lands beyond the rivers. Ochieng and his fellow untouchables hear of the zulkirs stirring in their fortresses, of rivers of fire blazing forth from the depths of the hells roaring out of Thaymont. The elves in their enclaves had been assailed by their fiendish kin. Caravans of nomads and merchants suddenly disappear into the wastes, all that is left of their passing, naught but clothed bones.

Of the untouchables' own gossip and the hearsay of the gates, much was there too to be had. Some had heard while taking out the offal that something bad might happen to a certain heavily-guarded merchant from out of town. Others had felt that the spirits of the sand are growing more and more restless with the mad magicks of those Blightbringers...

Still others had felt something strange, in the forsaken fanes to the east. Beyond the priestess and the bandit who had made those crumbled ruins their home, these folk who lived on death's door had sensed something unfathomable moving in shadow beyond shadow at dead of dark ere moonrise... Some fear that the outlander paladin who had occupied that temple before the two siblings came may have disturbed one of the Slumberers...

[Miraqariftsky]

Just after twilight...

In the streets of Gydrun...

"Oh you have got to be Tymora-bleeding kidding me!" squeals out a shrill girlish voice from behind a curtain of beads in a whitewashed house that Abek'ma passes. "He did nnoooottt!" From within there answers another voice, equally, if not higher-pitched, "Did too! Ooh! And then he drew it out..."

Pots and pans clamour in the kitchen of another house as dinner is prepared. Odours of frying fish and cooking chickpeas waft out of an open window.

The servant of Set passes by a barbershop. The haircutters, apparently having no more customers for the day, lounge about outside before going home, idling on posts and swilling beer bought from a bustling tavern nearby. The clink of coins is heard inside, on the counter, where a reed-thin man with scraggly hair counts the day's earnings, setting them by in neat little stacks. Outside, the gruff barbers converse in grunts, not looking the other men in the eyes.

The Hart's Ease Inn looms then, a rack of antlers dangling from what seems to be a gallows set up on its second floor. Busty barmaids bustle about, serving beers and deftly avoiding lustful gropes, their skirts sashaying hither and yon as they make their rounds. Beef and fish and the smells of succulent stew permeate the air of the common room and spill out into the courtyard. "Show 'er, Gwen! Put the Charioteer up there!" Loud guffaws and catcalls are heard as people wager on the outcome of a game of senet, the two ladies' hands blurring as they toss the knuckle-dice and move their black and white pieces up and down on the checkered board. "Hah! She's'a makin' her third pass now!"

It seems the town knows no night for as Abek'ma reaches the market proper, he is greeted by a renewed cacophony of traders. The dizzying smells of dreamlily and whitesnuff assail his nostrils, making his vision blur and his feet wobble. The market is a labyrinth of leans-to, tents, stalls and booths, sprawling with all manner of merchandise.

A three-bearded grey-skinned dwarf bustles by, a passel of naked elves dragged along dismally behind, their chains rattling, their genitalia shriveled in the humiliation of their ordeal and the biting cold of the desert night. A scream cuts through the air but nobody pays it any heed.

A voluptuous, much-rouged courtesan ambles up to Abek'ma, one hand snaking about his shoulders and pulling him close, rubbing her body against his. Her sultry voice caresses his hearing as she nibbles on his ear and grabs his crotch. "I smell ya spellcraft, mage. Come, give me a fireball or three... you know you want it..."

Spoiler

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Ya requested something "not horrible", didn't ya?

-----------------

In the no-longer-forsaken fanes outside the town walls...

The sepulchre sighs
Sands swirl though blows the wind no more
A whisper old sings through the cold night air
"Lies... lies... lies..."
Olden armour stirs with olden valor
Boneless and fleshless, forth they fare...
Twin swords slough free of sand
No hands hold the hilts so harrowed
Whispers of blood drip into the thirsting land
Brazen crescents burn then vanish
Bloodlusting growls rumble like an efreet's vain wish
To ether, the apparitions flowed
Leaving naught
But a fane now with unfathomed dread so fraught


-------------

Meanwhile, in the Arena... ((Agh! So... many... rolls...))

Spoiler

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Initiative order
Roondar 26
Dirk 23
Lucky 22
Corpse with Khopesh 22
Da BODY 21
Flying Head 15
Fat Freak 7

CwK
Trip attempt (1d20+7)[9]
Attack (1d20+7)[8]
Crit check (1d20+7)[13]
Damage (1d8+7)[11]

Da BODY
*gets in close, prepares both blades*

Flying Head
(1d20+8)[17]
(1d2+1)[2]
DC against poison is 20.

Fat Freak
(1d20+6)[9] Attack roll
(1d20+12)[30] Grab
(1d20+12)[14] Hold
(1d6+6)[11] Damage
DC against stench is 15

The now-grotesque merchant, reeking of death, growls and slavers with bloody froth, his massive arms propelling him forward on bleeding knuckles. He leaps, arms held wide, ready for an embrace of death.

Suddenly, there is a flash of silver and sable and the monstrosity crashes to the sands of the arena. Roondar stands between the beast and Velsar, blades dripping from the wound he had already inflicted on it.

The lean Blighter lopes towards Dirk and then leaps, both hands on the hilt of his sickle-sword. There roars no warcry, just a horrid moaning from the depths of a throat that no longer throbs with blood.

He lands hard on the foot of the bleachers, the heavy blade hacking down... and then he slips on one of his own trailing entrails and then sprawls on the ground, the tip of the sword, lashing out blindly, clanging off the sturdy greave that guards Dirk's shins.

Spry as ever, the veteran gladiator's onetime student bounds over the arena walls. Both blades whirl in the air, twirling deadly patterns of steel and spattering gore on the stone seats. Blood boils out of the stump of the neck but the whole body is tensed, prepared for vengeance. Suddenly, the devilish head, flapping about on batwings sprouted from its ears, grins madly and spits at Dirk, the long forked tongue darting out, the hardened points dripping with venom, aimed at his neck.

Meanwhile, attracted by the samurai's shout (or in this case, the ronin's shout), three more of the men-turned-beasts bound towards the Lucky Crane. They bash through what remains of the crowd, throwing screaming people into the air and pounding them into a bloody pulp when they land.

[Sir Shadow]

Abek'ma

Spoiler

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OOC:
yea yea... be careful what I wish for :P ... I didn't see you roll a grapple check!!! XD
<_< Don't wear yourself out Nexus...

Every night for the past fortnight he had spent traversing Gydrun. Every night the sights and sounds surprised him anew. Every night represented new opportunities.

Most of his life had been spent in the drab desert, where the most exotic scent was blood from an imported slave. However, he would not let this glamor and rouge distort his senses. He knew what lurked beneath the surface of this place: a dark cesspool of lies and betrayal. As a servant of Set, he completely understood the black pit at the figurative center of this city. He was wary, he had to be. Nothing was as it seemed. He kept his ears open as he moved through the crowd. A few conversations caught his attention but lot it after a few moments of bemused listening.

Sensing a body invade his bubble before feeling it, a dozen spells leaped into his mind. However, as the woman made her intentions known, he decided such was not necessary, for now. He was suspicious; how could he not be? True, he wore a great deal of magic apparel, but certainly, the street was probably filled with wealthy merchants wearing enchanted trinkets. Why had she picked him out? One arm wrapped around her, complementing the grip she had on him and cutting off any retreat on her part. Although it would seem that both her hands were accounted for, there was a distinct possibility she was going for his Bag of Holding.

"... My my, what a discerning nose you have..."

Deciding to play her game, his free hand was below stroking her chin in an instant. Perhaps, he could use this to his advantage? Her touch was not altogether unpleasant, and he had not lay with a woman in some time. If she had no ill intent, so be it. He anticipated seeing her reaction when she found out he had no money. Inclining his head toward the Hart's Ease, he began leading her toward the building.

Spoiler

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Listen - (1d20-1)[2]
Search - (1d20+2)[16]
Sense Motive - (1d20-1)[17]
Spot - (1d20-1)[2]

[de-trick]

Dirk

Spoiler

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AC-22
hp-57/57

As Dirk circles the former gladiator, he closes his eyes for a second thinking of how for the first time, he is not fighting infront of a crowd, he would not recieve the normal cheers of the spectators, then again it always gave him a boost and a reason to fight harder, he had to keep his honor, and respect among the people, then he opens his eyes, sweat starts to poor down from his brow, he looses his focus for a second and his old student launches a attack, Dirk blocks the blades with his own, and he parrys the sword, now dirk regains his composure he goes in for his attack

Spoiler

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the right (1d20+13)[22]
crit(1d20+13)[25]
(1d6+5)[9]

da left
(1d20+13)[25]
crit(1d20+13)[15]
(1d6+3)[5]

and another right

(1d20+8)[16]
crit(1d20+8)[26]
(1d6+5)[10]

[/spoiler]

[Philistine]

Lucky Crane

The Lucky Crane spins to face the three creatures approaching him. Quickly assessing the threat, he charges at the leftmost, bringing his sword around in a powerful two-handed blow.

Spoiler

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Shield is carried but not worn at this point. Charging and using Power Attack (5); net -3 to attack, +10 to damage, and AC is 20.
Attack: (1d20+11)[19]
Threat: (1d20+11)[23]
Damage: (1d10+19)[20]

[bchilders]

Roondar

Roondar effortlessly glides back and forth from one foot to the other. He looks to the undead creatures he is fighting and to the veteran gladiator and says, "Not often do the opponents start the fight of beheaded." He grins widely a he continues his attacks.

Spoiler

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Attack1:(1d20+16)[32]
Attack2:(1d20+16)[25]
Attack3:(1d20+11)[17]
Attack4:(1d20+11)[15]

Damage:(1d4+6)[9] Double damage on Crit (15+)
Damage:(1d4+6)[10]
Damage:(1d4+6)[10]
Damage:(1d4+6)[9]

Crit confirm:(1d20)[10]
Crit confirm:(1d20)[1]

[Miraqariftsky]

The elven rogue leaps at the corpulent fiend, his fine blades streaming behind like pinions of steel. At the last moment he skids in the sand and then plants his right foot down and spins hard, slashing with a backhanded blow across the bloated blighter's belly with the dagger in his left hand.

Kicking off from the a stubby, soiled knee with his sturdy boot, the dagger in the right hand stabs forward in a silvern streak, slamming in fat and gore up to the hilt. Roondar gives it a twist and then pulls free just as he ducks low when the fat merchant, now a manic monster, hurls an apish blow at him...

[Miraqariftsky]

...the ham-sized fist ploughing into the air where the rogue's head had just been.

Leaping up from his crouch, Roondar digs his hard-booted feet into the monstrous merchant's paunch. One foot on the stained belt and the other on a shuddering thigh, he suddenly slams both blades deep into the undead's neck and then gives a mighty bound. His spins once in the air, rips his daggers free and then lands lightly on the arena's sands.

Blood pours from ghastly wounds. The beast shudders and utters a drooling growl. As it starts to turn about, Roondar rises on one leg and then lashes out with a solid kick, the iron heel of his boot crunching into the beast's spine, sending it reeling forward, its heavy, clawed arms windmilling in its second set of death throes.

It staggers forth, lashing out in blind rage. Both claws connect with Velsar's torso, ripping into the ribcage and rending him apart. The fine-featured man's face contorts into a rictus of agony before the glamour dissolves and reveals his true fiendish nature, scarlet scales and horns sprouting upon the ruined body. His batwings flop about in the sand, beating against his slayer, spasm twice and then lie still.

Bloody spittle drips slowly from the fat merchant's mouth, the jaw hanging ajar. The noblewoman stirs and screams from beneath her fiendish consort's corpse, her regal dress stained with steaming entrails.

Over on the bleachers, the headless warrior slashes at Dirk with both blades in one blow, his arms crossing over one another and then back out again in less than a second. The seasoned gladiator's hands react from reflex, one small dagger spinning a tapestry of steel deflecting the two larger weapons with practiced ease, the other darting in for several quick ripostes between slashing parries.

Behind him, a stained khopesh rises. The brazen blade glitters once in the pale moonlight and then crashes down, raking a deep gash across his back. Above him, the fluttering batwinged head flicks its forked tongue out again, narrowly missing spitting the veteran gladiator's eye.

A broad flash of silver cuts through the air as the Lucky Crane launches himself across the stadium. Leaping from the top tier of bleachers to the bottom in one third down in one bound, his katana trails behind him, held now in a backhand grip.

A moment passes. The wind blows and the sand swirls.

Suddenly, the foremost beast splits in two, neatly bisected from shoulder to hip. Its compatriot's thigh and shin now sport a deep gash, the white bone glistening in the pale moonlight. The remaining two creatures leap after him.

The unscathed one leaps and misses, landing heavily on the stones. The other one loses its balance but manages to break its fall by slamming one monstrous fist against Crane's shoulder, staggering the ronin and knocking the breath from his lungs.

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Sorry, no rolls here. Too late in the night for me to bother with rolls.

Velsar dies. Sorry bub, but ye got banned again.

Dirk lost 17 HP.

Crane lost 11 HP.

Meanwhile, Abek'ma senses nothing amiss with the wandering harlot's caresses. Stumbling along towards the inn, a sudden gust of wind blows across the market square literally obliterating everything from the tiniest scrap of trash to the noisiest merchant. Even his newfound companion is gone with the wind.

Slow footfalls march on the sand in measured, deliberate cadence. Mail jangles in the air, now fetid with the smell of rot...

[Philistine]

Lucky Crane

The force of the creature's blow rocks Lucky Crane off-balance. Rather than struggling against it, he uses that momentum to turn on the uninjured creature, his blade whistling through the air in a nearly horizontal arc.

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Full Attack on the undamaged creature, using Power Attack (3). If he puts that one down, he'll turn back to the one that just hit him.
Attack 1: (1d20+11)[22]
Threat: (1d20+11)[23]
Damage: (1d10+15)[21]

Attack 2: (1d20+6)[7]
Threat: (1d20+6)[24]
Damage: (1d10+15)[23]

[Philistine]

OOC:

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Sorry for the double post, but it looks like I may need a...
Cleave: (1d20+11)[15]
Threat: (1d20+11)[17]
Damage: (1d10+15)[17]

... based on his first attack and damage rolls this round beating the rolls that put his initial opponent down.

[de-trick]

after Dirk strikes he is hit from behind, he feels the pain of a sword once more, he nods to the other men who jumped in the brawl with him then he sees his opening, he slides to the ground, through the beheaded gladiators legs, then does a roll and gets back on his feet, out of reach from both attackers

he then enters a defensive stance, blades at the ready to parry a sword

OCC

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Dirk
hp 40/57
ac 22+6(full defence)+1 (from two wep def) Ac = 29

[bchilders]

Roondar

Seeing the veteran gladiator attacked from both sides Roondar rushes in behind the headless attacker and quickly deals a few blows of his own. He spares a glance up towards the floating head wishing he had a way to deal with the flying nuissance.

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Attack:(1d20+18)[24]
Damage:(1d4+6)[10]

Figure I had to move so only one attack, if not you can roll them like in the previous round