NationStates Jolt Archive

The following nations are invited:

Theao
Christac
Ravea
Snake Eaters
Huntaer
Meihm
Soviet Germussia
Jenrak (Who is me, :p )

IC:

In the darker ages of the unified world, the increase of power amongst the brutal commanders and generals of the deathly wastelands of Africa began to gather to them slaves, the populace who did not have the will or strength gather on their own, and recieve their own independence. In such an apocaltypic age, it was not a difference, but a meaning, and the meaning of freedom gone from the sweet tastes of their tongues, the broken and shattered eminence of their souls.

However, fate would grant them, or the devil himself, gave them amnesty, a chance at a free life, a life devoid of corruption, of rule, of pain, but they msut sacrifice their own, to ensure their life to be freed. They had to fight for the amusement of the enemy, for the enemy to free them. Stripped of pride, of all knowledge of the outside world save for damage they had done, these soulless warriors, nameless, powerless of their own thoughts, were faced in a rink of death, in a massive situation arena, where the upper class watched their pain, and the lower classes cheered at their victories.

During this tournament, the failure's punishment is death, death at the hands of his friends and allies, and the victor is given freedom, the will to be his own man, not one else's. Now, another bloody chapter begins, in the arena of death.

OOC: The tournament will start soon, when the announcer (who will be me for a short time) will announce the beginning of the contest. During that time, you can RP your characters getting ready and being transported to the arena and stuff like that.

Saerat (OOC - Not linked to Christac's CoS, I just like the name) was in a dark room, surrounded by women of all different origins. He was enjoying himself. Maybe for the last time...

A couple of days ago, his boss Boss? Owner! had approached him about entering the games. As a worker in the training camp of the Armed Guard he liked the sound of the idea. And of course his boss would be paid a large amount of money if Saerat won.

He had signed up for the games, and followed the custom of 'living' before dying through the hands of his foes and allies. He was doing that this evening, as he lied on the bed with the women around him.

He looked at his watch, "8 hours till show time..."

He thought back to the good days, before he had become lower than the rest of the world. He was so proud when he made it into the sharpshooter squad. And to get the best marksman award several times running was heaven on earth for him. But he was making up for it now. 14 hour shifts on some days. He laughed. But thats over now, whatever happens, thats over

The Teal Fighter, Naharank, was a valiant warrior, and he fought for many years, although he hid during the ending, waning instances of the amusing rink of death, so that his life existed. He was not a subtle man, and his reputation as a coward of death was not so; he merely wanted a freedom. He didn't hide because he was scared, but because he was sure that it was not his time to fight.

Now, however, as the full moon dictates it in the broken plains of Africa, as the whip lashes on hs back sting freely, the blood flowing, he decided it was his year, his time to fight to death, and to see whether freedom would be his.

Koth, one of the strongest, but not the biggest in the camp of the local 'boss' read the flyer for the freedom fight, and approached the supervisor. After the boss/boys looked over the contestants and saw that Koth looked small and weedy, decided to send him as he 'couldn't' work well.
Thus Koth was ready to take on all comers to ensure either his freedom, or death.

"This time, don't run." The boss spit in his face, as the saliva oozed all over Naharank face, when he got into the edge of the truck. The cages there were unstably dangerous, and the sharp pointed edges showed a high risk of a deadly infection. But, as he had no freedom of his own, had to go in there, and fight for amusment.

Dagros fell back from the blow, stunned and bleeding freely from this latest unprovoked assualt. He was one of the strongest in the mine, but he was not the one in charge. That duty fell to the bosses son, who no-one messed with as he had an 'elite' guard to protect him. But he was a vicious slave-driver, and knew his way round a fight.

"Slave, don't ever question my authority again," he leered, leaning over Dagros and spitting in his face,"If it were up to me, you'd be dead right now. But, the Boss has decided that we're sending you to this challenge. If you die, then its saves us the problem. If you live, then we don't have to look at your ugly face again!"

That had been three days ago. Since then, Dagros had been let loose into the African bush, with a few weapons and survival equipment and a vehicle. His task: To get to this challenge from this other boss, and win his freedom by any means neccesery. The final words of the Boss rang in his ears,"You are no longer Dagros, you are Snake. That is all you are... a snake"

Snake still remembered the days when he had been a Major in the Snake Eater Army. One of the best, earmarked to go far as a field officer. Instinctive when he killed, and little remorse when he killed those who deserved it. All that was far behind him, every since that ill-founded mission to Earth. It all gone downhill from there. He shook himself, and gunned the buggies engine. Soon, I can go home...

Nexlon, the Silver fighter, yawned and meditated on his life. He was getting much to old for this sort of work. The older man had only one Real eye-The other one was cybernetic-and his lanky body didn't seem to be suited for fighting. In actuality, Nexlon had worked as an assassian for years before this.

Nexlon closed his eyes, and prepared mentally for the epic battle that was sure to take place the following day.

The tired, fat, bulbous announcer Merns stood up from his chair, his eyes soaked with tears and his face palm sweaty. For decades he watched the barbaric arena of the slaves, as they battled each other, to the death, for their own lives. He was retiring within the next year, and this was his last commentary work on the arena. Highly respected within the battle circle, he was not a warrior, but he respected the slaves, and he wanted to help, but they had no alternative but to fight.

"I'm sick of this shit." He grumbled to his manager, who softened his shoulders and rubbed his back.

"Don't worry." The manager pronounced. "After this one, you can retire, remember, we had a deal; a settlement for one last announcing role."

"But I don't like seeing people get killed, you know that."

"Hey, slaves are not people. Besides, the people love your commentaries. One last job, okay?"

"Okay."

"That a boy." The manager patted on his back, before going back to the top booth to begin his amusement. Merns was ready, and his throat afresh. He was ready; within a few days the arena would be opened, and the slaves would be unleashed onto the battlefield.

OOC: Bump. I'll RP my part later.

OOC: Me too. I've been busy & still am.

OOC: Bump for others. My next post will the opening of the arena, so get ready.

Slavery. It was an interesting word for Frimnux. There was no concept of slavery on his home-world. The eight legged creature was pushed forward, at the whip of a merciless driver. Frimnux had decided that this 'Earth' was over-rated. 'Freedom for all' HA! he thought. Strange that it was the Javiiane that were to be enslaved, after years of their supremacy of the inferior human race. Interesting, he thought that they stole the honorific, glory fighting from us and use it in their own culture, shows their maturity as a race Of course to harbor these thoughts alone was against the human's policy, but they could never supress the spirit of a Javiiane. Frimnux turned his sight tentacles towards the driver behind and looked through his deep black eyes at the scene behind him. There were eight of them in all, each with a driver, whipping away as they trudged, chain bound, towards their unknown destination. But at least Frimnux knew what to expect. They were to be given power armor, and weapons. Then the Dueling would commence, and they would fight to the death. Perhaps they would have yarnks of land to fight on, as in the Javiiane tradition, but Frimnux didn't believe that would happen. Most likely their primitive 'lord' would have a small ring with scarce, if any, cover and they would be expected to duke it out. Typical humans. Take an honored tradition and twist it into some form of meaningless, violent sport. Yep, 'Freedom for all' sure is working he scoffed to himself. The fighting would begin soon and Frimnux wouldn't be caught off guard.

The truck pulled into the cracked parking lot, as litter was scattered across the massive parking showing the destroyed cars and the prospecting vehicles, as some where belonging to the poor, the unfortunate who believed their pitiful life couldn't be worse, and others belonged to the rich, the wealthy and the cunning who believed that the winner of this prideless contest could work for them, as a free man, or woman.

Naharank felt the shifting of gears rumble within the cage, and his skin was ripped and tattered from the countless years of battle, and the rusty sharp edges did not help at all. He had to get ready, but the cheering groups in the arena far off made him queasy. Hopefully he could finally find the courage to fight to the death. He had to; if he didn't, then he'd die anyways. There was no alternative but to pull into the driveway, place his laced armor on end the lives of others before he has it done to him.

OOC: So.... about that 'I'll start soon'.....

I officially declare this thread to be dead. Amen.

OOC: Amen. *Prays quietly*

OOC - Its not dead yet. Ill show you dead!!! *pulls out gun and fires in your general direction*

Ducks for cover* "You'll never kill me!" Makes a break for the door and throws a frying pan at Cristac simultaniously.

*Ninja Run Away!*