Lictoria
06-12-2004, 02:01
(OOC: I'm bored as hell, so let's see if we can't get something cool going. Basically, this is just a combat thread where modern gladiators use modern weapons to fight each other in a hi-tech, trap-filled arena. Anyone interested can join in- I don't expect many posts. Use any weapons you want, so long as it's within reason. The ring's big, so you can use motorcycles or something, and plus there are weapons and vehicles lying around, so it should be cool. Just join in, be opponents against my character or each other, team up on each other, whatever.)
IC: A fifty-seven pound, razor-sharp, high-powered Beavertooth chainsaw. It could cut through a block of titanium like warm butter. It let out a soothing roar and and a therepeutic vibration, an animalistic sort of hum that spoke to the primal essence of its user. Its purposes numbered only one: to shed blood. Its swift teeth did that, and often, and so did its friends. Some of these friends traveled in holsters, some in sheaths. Others traveled slung over shoulders or in gloved hands, aimed, locked, and loaded. To hear of their work was to know fear. To see it was to know death. Nasty tools- from assault rifles to screwdrivers, handguns to machetes, fragmentation grenades to steel claws. Mathias Anderson bore scars from many of them, for they were pried from the dead fingers of his foes. But they were no cause for alarm- he had plenty of ways to kill a man without the use of any of them. Ball-bearing coshes, garotte wire, a blowtorch, a hammer, a saw-blade frisbee, and a few more handily gruesome implements were the brush and palette for the artist who used arena ground as his canvas on which to create his own unique masterpieces. He was the master, undefeated, untouchable, unstoppable, and by now he was not willing to give up. It had become his only ability. It didn't make for lasting relationships, either...
IC: A fifty-seven pound, razor-sharp, high-powered Beavertooth chainsaw. It could cut through a block of titanium like warm butter. It let out a soothing roar and and a therepeutic vibration, an animalistic sort of hum that spoke to the primal essence of its user. Its purposes numbered only one: to shed blood. Its swift teeth did that, and often, and so did its friends. Some of these friends traveled in holsters, some in sheaths. Others traveled slung over shoulders or in gloved hands, aimed, locked, and loaded. To hear of their work was to know fear. To see it was to know death. Nasty tools- from assault rifles to screwdrivers, handguns to machetes, fragmentation grenades to steel claws. Mathias Anderson bore scars from many of them, for they were pried from the dead fingers of his foes. But they were no cause for alarm- he had plenty of ways to kill a man without the use of any of them. Ball-bearing coshes, garotte wire, a blowtorch, a hammer, a saw-blade frisbee, and a few more handily gruesome implements were the brush and palette for the artist who used arena ground as his canvas on which to create his own unique masterpieces. He was the master, undefeated, untouchable, unstoppable, and by now he was not willing to give up. It had become his only ability. It didn't make for lasting relationships, either...