[The Scatmanson]

Separate post to show my first battle post separately.

Alright, here we go. The battlefield is: Deluge Swamplands
Constantly raining and damp, this swampland is used for execution fights between a king’s prisoners. This is only one of many of a fat king’s execution areas, but it is a heralded battlefield.

The swamp. Buzzing sounds were everywhere, accentuated by croaks and chirps, along with odd groans and roars from antediluvian beasts. The ramshackle home of the monsters was incredibly well forested, although the canopy was nonexistent, allowing for a torrential rainstorm to fall. This storm was silent, all except for the swiftly dropping raindrops, and the jet-black clouds left the air quite gray and musty, fearsome and filled with a remorseful feel from possibly hundreds of deaths within the area. Anger also punctuated the land, as the doleful ‘expressions’ upon the trees seemed to harbor the shouts flung from the mouths of the dying, and the furious cries from the berserkers who dropped them to the ground.

Appearing from behind a tree and stepping into a heavy, murky, and overall slimy little pool in the midst of the swamp, and leaving a trail of black, crystalline ice, not nearly as peaceful looking as it’s clearer cousin, came the ice-arch-mage Erasmus, a shock amid the viscous layers of muck upon the trees, a peaceful beacon amid the vehement noises. The inimical dragonflies, which were two feet in length and bore a tree-melting poison, were buzzing around, drooling in a bothersome manner on Erasmus’s coat. Such foolish creatures, they realized not that they were toying with a man whose hatred was fierce and well warranted, his heart now completely nonexistent in his frozen chest. Within a moment’s time, Erasmus had drawn a hidden knife and made a clean cut in one of the flying pest’s heads, leaving it deformed and crumpled upon the ground.

The humid air was quite the hamper on the cold-blooded philosopher. There were several-hundred raindrops falling all about him, the static noise as they hit the water resonating continuously until it became so common that it was not so painfully droning as it was at first. It actually served to placate the ice-sage, and caused him to stare at the firmament above with a small hint of affection.

As not to squander away his time in being within this haphazard swamp, he quickly set to work building a shack in which he meant to take shelter. He crisscrossed vines, froze water into floors, and used his prowess in using his own blood as razor-sharp weaponry to create fitting boards and building material (He had brought the knife to cut open his own arm and to make these powerful tools with the arterial matter that henceforth was released). There was no longer need for the wetness around him to bother him, as a roof was over his plotting head in a little under an hour. He did not admire his work, nor even actually pay attention to it enough to care. It was reflexive of him to avoid overages of moisture, which he hated so.

Beyond all reason, Erasmus was a very gentle looking man, despite his fickle mind and unmitigated desire to destroy the earth. At this time, the spikes he commonly wore on his robe were gone, leaving only the light-blue, serene, and overall fitting robe as the only visible garment. Under the wet end of the robe, upon which the black-water had been soaking and saturating for the past couple of hours, there were spiked shoes, and he wore a kindly beard upon his chin, which stretched no more than an inch off of his face. He wore an unnatural shade of blue hair on his head, which was short as old-men’s hair goes, the beard mimicking this color. And, of course, in his hand he held the blue sword he had used to cut the tree into pieces, which steamed a cold smoke into the air. He stepped into the shelter he had made, forming a chair of ice, and sat down, awaiting an opponent.

The ice underneath him melted slightly every minute he waited. As this happened, the mage would slowly refreeze it, the paltry act of cutting his own arm punctuating every cold mist unto the ground. The enemy wasn’t quite prepared to meet the frozen blood ice crafter, also subsequently known as the blood crafter, and Erasmus knew that his unique talent and race would be a good surprise to shock his foe.

How does Erasmus know an enemy is soon to come, one may ask himself as he reads this description. Erasmus knows this because he is to be featured in a gladiatorial match with a foe selected by an angry king. This foe is in the same rut that Erasmus is in: He doesn’t quite know why he has been selected, nor does he know this king. Also, for some reason, they have been transported to this odd land, and given a very cryptic and ancient battlefield to work with-this very swamp that now Erasmus had temporarily crafted an abode. Such a battle would lead to perhaps the most ability that Erasmus had ever shown, his scowl maybe for once turning into a cunning smile…