12214/15 Fears: The Seventh Circle - The Rings of Violence

15 Fears: The Seventh Circle - The Rings of Violence
Date of Scene:	26 July 2022
Location:	Hell
Synopsis:	Jon traverses the Seventh Circle of Hell and meets it's Lord before engaging in a trial by combat against a foe of myth and being labelled a hero of the hellish land.
Cast of Characters:	Jonathan Sims, Chas Chandler

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Jonathan Sims has posed:
    It takes about a year for Jon to walk through the rest of the Eighth Circle, and it's not long before he's certain that it would have taken him far longer without the blue butterfly to guide him. The butterfly is able to help him find pathways to the bridges between bolgia, pathways that avoid major concentrations of demons and sinners, pathways that lead him to food and places to rest just when he needs both. In some of the more difficult stretches, he flies, but flying for him is an effort of will, and while out in the physical world that makes it easier than using real wings, down here it's taking a lot of his will just to try to proceed /out/ of a place meant to keep people /in/.

    He's hopeful at first, telling himself there are four bolgias left, and if he can just get across each in a day, well--that's only four days, right? But the first day passes and he's still in the fourth bolgia, surrounded by sorcerors and magicians, astrologers and fortune tellers and false prophets. Another day passes, and another, and he's still slogging past pits full of people with their heads twisted around to face backward, blinded by their own tears. By the end of the first week he's crying himself to sleep on the bedroll he found, curled up with a summoned blanket under a summoned tarp attached to a rock ledge. He lets himself feel the despair, the hopelessness, only at night. In he morning he has to tell himself he'll get out, and get up and move on, because otherwise he'll never make it home.

    It's about a week in that he realizes he has no statements to sustain him here, and though he tries to push on, by the end of the second week he's so desperate to get one that he accosts one of the sinners in the ditches and tries to pull out a statement. Which is when he discovers one of the big secrets of the place: most of the people in Hell don't actually exist. They're simulacrums, put there to enhance the sufferings of those actually being punished. It makes sense, once he thinks about it. After all, there have only been so many Christians in history, and this is only /one/ domain of all of Hell. But a lot of these people will be far more punished by thinking they're just one of many, so the realm provides.

    So they let themself feel out someone who can actually provide a statement, and grab the one true sinner in the ditch, and practically rip the statement out of the man. He turns out to have been an astrologer who lived in in 15th century, a man obsessed with the stars, who might have been an astronomer in the modern day. But in those days, to make any money from his obsession, he studied astrology and read fortunes for the rich and powerful. His sin? He never believed in any of it, and lived and died feeling like a fraud and failure. The man's tears overflow even further as he sobs out his story. He tried to give good advice--but he lied to his clients, and lied to himself, and hated his life. After one client died due to his advice he felt the weight of his perceived sins so strongly he tried to be rid of all his wealth and join a monastery. He died of illness before he could atone, and so found himself in Hell, and believes that he belongs here. When the statement is done, the man collapses, sobbing even harder, and one of the demons moves in to scourge him back his feet, to keep walking with all the rest.

    It so horrifies Jon that he starts going after the demons for statements instead. Even if those are far, far worse at least it doesn't feel like feeding on helpless prisoners.

    His dreams, without the Archive to buffer him, become nothing but reptitions of those statements, often twisted by the Watcher into something even more horrific, giving him no respite. He takes to trying to go days without sleep, only letting himself stop walking when he all but drops from exhaustion, until in a sleep-deprived haze he nearly falls into the flames burning the feet of the sinners in the third bolgia. After that he at least forces himself to sleep every night.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    At least water isn't hard to come by. He can just summon it up. So he never goes thirsty, and manages to wash off the worst of the grime.

    Still, by the time he reaches the Great Cliff that separates the Eighth and Seventh Circles, he's covered in dust and grime, exhausted, and worn down. By now he knows it's going to take a /very/ long time to get home, and he can only pray that this will be something like the time he spent in the Astral desert--that far, far less time is passing in the physical realm. He dreads to think what might have happened back home by now, if it's really been a year. Though it /does/ occur to him that if it really /has/ been a year, surely Cael would have found a way down here by now. There's only so long she'd wait for him, right?

    He stares up at that huge (huge, /huge/) cliff, and the waterfall of the boiling river, and says, "Yeah, nope," aloud. Takes a week-long rest at the bottom of the Great Cliff, using the last of his provisions so there'll be less weight to carry, regaining his strength, working on repairing his super-suit with magic while singing to himself. Spirits bolstered, he tackles the flight up the cliff, sword in hand.

    After all, there's supposed to be a wyvern up at the top, right? He doesn't want to get knocked out of the sky and right back down into the Eighth Circle.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The cliff is steep but after a while of the flight, Jon can see that it's not shear. There is a slope to it and with enough breaks and ledges that the Archivst doens't have to make the flight without respite. After the third or fourth stop, (did counting even matter), a change in the air tells Jon he's close. The filth of the Eighth Circle gives way to the brimstone and fire of the Seventh.

    It's also apparent to Jon that they aren't alone. A massive shadow crosses overhead and the first threat of the Rings of Violence shows itself. The body is about the size of a fighter jet: close to sixty feet long from nose to tail, with a wingspan to equal that. But it's size isn't what's so strange. No that title goes to its makeup. The body is covered in a mix of scales and fur giving it a perpetual appearance of mange. The wings are leathery and batlike. The tail is segmented and tipped with a large stinger, like a scorpion. But the face. The face is the worst part. Instead of some reptilian or beastial creature the face of this thing is the most approachable and friendly looking face one can imagine; the face of a honest man to hide the true monster that lies beneath.

    When he opens his mouth the sound that pours out is terrible somewhere between a man scream of agony and the roar of a lion. It banks and turns, suddenly noticing the one that joins it in the sky. It seems that the circle of violence is going to start off before Jon even sets a foot on the ground.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    This is precisely why Jon had his sword out right at the beginning of the flight. He curls in his wings, temporarily dropping himself while using them to summon up a shield and then flaring them back out while he darts in at his attacker. Along the way through the Eighth Circle, he took some time to re-design his backpack so that the straps cross in the back like a harness, thus allowing him to have his wings in the proper place. Well, the place that feels proper to /him/. He's had plenty of time to consider why he feels like his wings ought to be in the same place as the angels' wings, even though he's not an angel. He hasn't quite decided if it's that he's just that deeply influenced by that iconography, or if he /is/ a creature in a similar vein.

    He /does/ judge souls, and he /does/ serve Order, after all. Even if he's not an angel-angel... angel adjacent? Maybe? It's an odd thing to consider.

    He goes right on the attack, slashing at the wyvern's wing, looking for an advantage. If he can force it to the ground where its bulk will hamper it, while he can remain in the sky, he'll have a far easier time winning this fight.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The beast screams as Jon's sword cuts into its wing and its flight falters a bit. The counterattack is replies with is multi-faceted. A belch of noxious, purple gas from it's mouth and a swing of that wickedly sharp tail stinger give a one-two punch to show its might. The gas lingers in the stale air of the rockface, creating a barrier agaisnt Jon's advancement again with their deadly blade as the creature labors to escape up the mountain's face with rough slaps of its wings.

    The ruined appendage makes this labor even more excruciating, but it manages a bit of distance before turning that affable face behind it and belching out a ball of flame towards the Archivist as well. From the look of it Jon's attempts seem to be working as the beast looks like it wants to land and is simply looking for a spot to do it safely.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon responds to the belch of noxious gas by flapping his wings, creating a bubble of pure air around him, one that pushes the gas away so it can't hurt him. He pursues the creature, slashing the sword to try to harry it, but the gout of flame catches him off-guard. It sends him tumbling to try to avoid the fire, and he slams right into the cliff face, breaking his own wing with a scream of pain. He grabs into the ledge with his magical right arm, gripping as hard as he can.

    "Come on, Archivist," he growls. "You didn't come this far to fall now. You can do this. One, two, three..."

    They haul themself up and over the edge, climb to their feet, chest heaving with the exertion, and stare at the wyvern trying to land.

    "Alright, then. Suppose I'd better get serious here." They reach out for the power of Ma'at, pull on the circlet and wrap the goddess' power around them--but only to bolster what they were about to do anyway. The circlet appears on their brow as they pull their staff off their belt and shake it out, then raise it to the sky. They imagine ice--not ice found anywhere on Earth, not the ice of a glacier or a mountain cave, but some of the coldest ice in the solar system, the sort to be found in the moons of Jupiter and Saturn, colder even than the depths of Cocytus.

    Then he slams the butt of the staff into the ground, and a fountain of bitter cold erupts from the ground, reaching up around the wyvern, attempting to both stab and envelop the monster.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The creature was readying itself to touch down as the ice shoots up around it. One of the jagged shards pierces its uninjured wing the sound of wet leather ripping cutting through the moans and cries of the denizens of this Circle. More ice reaches up to encase its legs and it struggles to escape but it is a futile gesture as both wings are ruined and the ice holds against its fight.

    Another bellow of rage erupts from the creature and more flame spills from its mouth at the ground around it, scouring and scorching free some of the ice but not enough to matter. Jon has surely won this fight.

    The sound of galloping hooves can be heard coming up a ridge not far from the battle site and a band of centaurs appear over the plain. "Ho, there! Who are you that has so wounded the great beast Geryon?!" the one in the lead calls.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon glowers at the creature for a moment. "If I let you go, are you going to attack me again, or do I have to figure out how to set this permanently?" He aims his staff at the ice, pondering how best to will it being real and solid, at least long enough to give him a head start on the wyvern.

    Then there are galloping hooves, and he speaks without taking his eyes off the great creature he's holding in place with what amounts to his will made manifest in the ice. "I am Jonathan Sims," he says. "The Archivist. Avatar of Ma'at. I came to Hell through a portal in Cocytus, and gained passage through Malebolge from Lord Satanael. As you can no doubt tell, I don't belong on /this/ level either." He's never been a terribly violent person, really. Only when he absolutely has to be.

    Deep breath in. Deep breath out. "I /really/ don't want to have to kill one of the guardians of this realm, so if we can all agree to walk away...?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The band of centaurs, nine in all, gallop down the slope of the ridge to the area between the Archivist and Geryon. The lead centaur has a axe in a case on one flank. He draws it and stands before the raging beast. "Stand down, Geryon. It's over. You have lost" he says derisively. He gives Jon a glance and shakes his head. "To a mortal no less."

    The beast roars again and thrashes in it's bindings. "RELEASE ME!" he commands. Belching a plume of fire into the sky above them all.

    "I want your word that you will not offer retaliation at the moment you are free?"

    Geryon screams again and more fire is released before he sullenly remarks. "You have my word. I will accept this defeat..."

    The centaur turns to Jon. "He is a terrible creature but he will honor his word to me. Release him and allow him to tend to his wounds, then we will decide what is to be done about you." His expression is contemplative, if reserved.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods and waves his staff, dismissing the ice and letting his shoulders relax. Then he dismisses the circlet of Ma'at on his brow, letting himself feel the weight of the realm on his shoulders again. He takes a deep breath, eyeing the wyvern warily until he's sure it's not going to come after him, then turns to address the centaurs.

    "If you can take me to someone who can grant me passage, I'd be grateful." A pause. "I know that's hardly, ahh, standard procedure around here, but I suppose that you can leave that to your superiors to decide...?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The great beast Geryon half-hobbles, half-flutters away from the battle field. Presumably to heal from the damage dealt to it by Jon. The centaurs, by contrast regard the visitor with suspicion and apprehension. After all, they're alive. That much is abnormal. They're also not meant for this realm. And they're coming -up- from the depths of Hell. Alone.

    It is all a bit much for them and the lead centaur nods. "Very well" he sheathes the axe at his flank and offers a hand to the Archivist. "We will take you to see Lord Chiron. He rules this Circle and will know how better to allow you to proceed." Once the Archivist takes the offered hand he is flung upon the back of the large centaur and with a command the company sets off.

    Above the ridge, Jon is given a first hand glimpse at the lowest ring of the Seventh Circle. A vast open desert plain stretches before them. The sand glows as if on fire and there is more flakes of fire falling from the sky. A number of people lie spread out over the sand, crucified by arrows that leave them open to the torment of the motes of fire that fall. Others huddle together in small masses, hoping to find shelter among those they have found. Others more travel in small bands moving absently over the plain of fire, making their way to some unidentifiable errand or absently wandering to have someting to do aside from burn or huddle.

    The centaurs eat up the ground beneath them, Jon's mount explains the punished of this ring are the Blasphemers and Usurers. Violent against God and Art. The band travels at a pace no living horse could hope to match. After a time, a river of red liquid comes into sight. The smell alone is enough to identify its makeup: boiling blood. It streams across the plain from some massive dark wood that seems their destination.

    Once inside the wood, Jon is able to see the gnarled trees with sparse leaves and little else. Where the denizens of this ring are becomes apparent when one of the branches of the tree is broken and blood splashes across Jon's face accompanied by a groan of pain from the tree itself. The punished of this ring are the trees themself. The mount explains that they are in the Forest of Suicides, those who are violent against themselves. The band changes formation within and Jon soon finds out why as a flock of harpies, creatures witht he bodies and faces of beautiful women, but arms and legs of birds, move to harry the group. Arrows are enough to keep them at bay, and the centaurs are more than adept enough to suffer no true losses from the raging creatures before they emerge from the forest and emerge on the banks of a floodplain.

    The river of boiling blood covers the land here and those who dwell here are immersed within it. The lead centaur carries JOn across the river, the hooves treating the lake of blood as if it were solid ground, explaining the ring houses those who commit violence against their neighbors. Warmongers, murderers, tyrants, and those who ransack and raze. Their destination appears to be a temple of sorts at the center of the flooded land. It looks not unlike the Collesium, if a bit smaller in size.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Once inside the centaurs slow and pause. The lead centaur orders the Archivist off his back and leads them all toward an open chamber. The sound of combat can be heard distant but constant from deeper inside the facility. The chamber is attended to by a number of youthful looking women and men. A closer glance at their eyes shows them all to be demons in one form or another. They are waiting on a much larger centaur. As the leader approaches he stops before raised platform and bows, dropping his forequarters down to give homage to the being before them. "Lord Chiron... I bring forth the Archivist. He seeks passage to the surface. He claims to be assisted by Lord Satanael below."

    The large centaur looks at Jon. He is a vicious looking being, strong and muscular and when he speaks there is authority and command in his voice. Earned command, not something he was granted by birthright or position. "Archivist..." he says, lingering on the word. "Tell me, whose library do you maintain? And why are you here, in Hell, while you yet sustain a half-life?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon is expecting much of what he sees. Thus far it's beginning to look like either Dante /actually/ took a trip through Hell--or one version of Hell--or else the book got so popular that some enterprising demon modeled a whole domain of the vast expanses of Hell after the Inferno. He feels for those suffering--how many of them that even actually exist--but he knows some portion of them /do/ deserve to be here. Even if /he/ doesn't agree with the judgements made, is it really his place to question whatever mechanism sends people to Hell? So he sighs, and looks so he can witness, and let the Watcher feed, but he tries not to fret too much. This is, after all, what this place is for.

    On being presented to Chiron, he bows respectfully and says, "A library is not an archive. The former is meant for storing published material, for use in research or personal interest. An archive tends to store historical documents and other, unpublished primary sources, and might be the only place such a document exists. The Archive," and there's a distinct, subtle difference to the way he says the word, "is a repository of the experiences of a family of temple scribes originally from Kemet." A pause. "Specifically, the Archive houses the statements of the souls the Archivists have judged. You deal with mortals, here. I deal with immortals, those who will not die in the normal course of matters, to determine whether they need to be removed from the mortal world."

    A glance around. "As for why I'm here? I fell through a crack in reality and was brought back in through a weakness in Cocytus. I already informed Lord Satanael of the potential breach, given that it was a servant of the Old Ones that brought me back in. Wouldn't do to have an army of shuggoths start crawling up the cliffs, now would it?"

    They hesitate briefly, then say, "I'm trying to get home. To get out. Specifically, for your purposes, I am seeking passage through this Circle, to the Sixth." Where he might belong, if Chiron has any sense of a resonance on his soul. "What would your price be for said passage?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    There is pause among the demons as Jon corrects their lord. The lord himself is silent as well for a moment before he bursts out laughing. "I like this one... he will do nicely!" he gestures to a nearby demon and says, "Bring us food and drink, for our new guest. Negotiations will require such things if I am to measure what sort of price I with to extract."

    A chair and table is drawn up for Jon and food and drink presented on it. It's actually good food, roasted boar with bread and some form of dark root that tastes earthy and sweet. Wine is also presented as well as fresh water. All are infused with a portion of some magic, dark magic, but magic nonetheless. After a time Chiron asks, "Very well, Archivist, Judge of Immortals... I take it you are skilled warrior where you come from? To brave the perils of the Outside as well as to cast judgement on creatures who resist such things by their very nature?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon eats with gusto; it's been a while since he's eaten anything that wasn't weird fruit or centipede meat. The food may be infused with dark magic, but what isn't infused with /something/ dark in this realm? He'll have to trust it won't trap him here for too terribly long. What else is he going to do, refuse the hospitality?

    "That depends on what you mean. If you mean in one-on-one combat, well, I don't know if I'd say /skilled/," Jon replies with a certain amount of self-deprecation. "I've had training, and some amount of practice, but there are far better warriors--at least at the technical aspects of fighting. Better swordsmen, better martial artists." A smirk. "I know a woman, about yea high," he gestures at Cael's height, "who can consistently throw me on my ass, no matter how good I get. She's always a step ahead of me." There's a fond kind of pride there. Cael Becker throwing him on his ass is one of the cornerstones of their relationship, after all.

    "But if you mean in the overall meaning of 'warrior?' I led troops that defeated Saint Michael in more than one battle. Aside from the initial engagement, we won every battle." He picks up a piece of bread, tears pieces off as he speaks. "Once you've mastered the tactical ability, the key to winning a battle, or a war, is understanding your opponent, and planning ahead--and at /that/ I excel. Many people where I come from believe that the finest warriors can defeat an enemy without ever drawing their blade."

    He shrugs. "At the very least, it's a good idea to win your battles before you fight them." He takes a bite of the bread.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The centaur lord strokes his beard. "I knew I recognized the name... Michael's adversary. Yes. Yes. Fortuitous that you come here of all places then..." She smiles. "And it makes it clear what I am exact for payment." He takes hold of a massive goblet, and drinks some of the dark liquid from it. Wine... probably, though anything was possible here.

    "I am in need of a new Champion" Chiron states. "One to foster the battles that reign here. Asterius has grown boring in his endless search for someone with the might of his great adversary..." He smiles. "I want you to fight him. As a general of troops and one who bested the greatest of warriors, you should prove more than up to the challenge. If you win, you become my champion for a year and day... after which we revist the situation and you will be free to leave." He meets the Archivist's gaze. "If you fail? Well... Asterius can claim he slayed the most powerful general of all time and that will more than bolster his convinctions."

    He lifts the goblet. "Does this offer meet with your satisfaction, Archivist Sims?" he asks. "I can guarantee that the spoils of my champion are great and more than sufficient, even for a mortal such as you."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon considers this for a long moment. A year and a day is... another year. Another year before he can even get the Sixth Circle. And who knows how long he'll be /there/. And what about after he gets out of Hell? (If he ever gets out of Hell.) How long will it take him to find his way home? (If he ever gets home.)

    And what if he /loses/? He doubts very much that he can truly, permanently die... but will he be /himself/ anymore? He promised Cael he'd come back. That means /he/ has to come back. Jonathan Sims, not merely the Archivist.

    He picks up the goblet of wine before him, willing his hand to be stable instead of shaking. He takes a long drink, looking right at Chiron as he considers all of this. He promised Cael he'd come home. That's the long and the short of it. And if he doesn't agree... then how does he get home? He'll just have to win the battle.

    "Alright," he says. "I accept your terms. What are the parameters? Are there certain weapons, or no-holds-barred?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Chiron claps a hand to his flank. "Wonderful!" he says. "As for parameters? I wouldn't dare impose such things on the Bull of Minos. I shan't expect such restrictions from you either. Do as you can and as you must... he is immortal, being already slain by Theseus... any death here will only be temporary, but killing him once will do the trick to secure your victory."

    He smiles and rises with a great shake of his form. "I shall see that you are led to the staging area and I will be eagerly watching from the balcony." He starts for a large, wide corridor to one side. "Oh and Archivist" he says stopping and looking over a shoulder. "I trust you will not disappoint me. He chuckles as he continues down the hall, flanked by four of his attendants.

    After a few moments one of the attendants approaches Jon. "I am meant to escort you to the staging area" The voice is familiar. Too familiar. It's Cael's voice. Looking upon the attendant reveals her to -be- Cael in every way except for the eyes. The eyes are deep pools of red, flecked with a single dark dot for a pupil.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon eats the last of the bread, takes a last swig of wine, and then rises, adjusting the staff on one side of his belt and the sword case on the other, checking over his armor to see if the mending he's done has lasted. He's been starting to figure out how to make certain things last, such as sewing and the backpack he no longer really needs to focus on to keep it in existence.

    Then he looks up as the familiar voice speaks, and flinches back from that visage. "Don't do that," he snaps. "Don't--don't pretend to be--/her/. Don't pretend to be /anyone/. I cannot abide a /lie/ like that."

    Their hands flex into fists at their sides, their jaw clenches, and then they turn away to pick up their backpack, surprised at their own rage at the demon's face and voice.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    When Jon turns back the demon is in a more natural form. Red skin, an overly lush appearance that barely fits in the diaphonous shawl it wears, and jet black hair. The eyes are the same though. "An apology" it says in a deep husky voice. "I only thought a friendly face would be welcome. I didn't think the great Archivist would be so skittish when travelling through the gates of Hell" it adds with a throaty laught.

    It offers an arm to Jon. "My task is the same regardless. I am to escort you to the staging rooms where you will ready yourself to face the Bull of Minos. It is going to be quite the fight if your reputation is accurate."

    The demoness leads Jon to a small cavern with a portculis leading into a wide field beyound. THere are an asortment of weapons and armor in the room, Jon doesn't need either give he has he own. After ten minutes a gong sounds and the portculis rises, giving both combatants leave to enter the field.

    The roar of the audience hits Jon first. The voices of a great myriad of mythic creatures lands on their ears. Centaurs, demons, harpies, naga, and many others fill the seats of the arena. There is a roar of sorts and then the Bull of Minos emerges from the opposite portculis. Asterius is easily 10 feet tall and as heavily muscled as his myth would indicate. He wears armor, in a vaguely greek fashion and also weilds a massive double headed axe.

    He scuffs a heavy booted foot and charges in a small circle, giving evidence to agility that belies his size. Before stopping and facing Jon, twin plumes of steam spill from his nostils in challenge to his new foe.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I'm not skittish," Jon snaps in reply. "I'm just--I miss her, yes, but--" He shakes his head. "You couldn't understand. It goes against--against my purpose." A pause. Then, slowly, "Against my... Purpose." His brow furrows for a moment. He's not sure he likes the implications of that. "Sorry," he mutters, letting the demoness take his arm. "Just... been a long year."

    He spends the walk to the staging room, and the ten minutes while there, summoning up what information he can on the minotaur. And discovers a problem--he can't really /directly/ access the Archive. This stands to reason--if he could, then he'd just go there when he slept, could potentially just portal his way back. Is it something about Hell that's cutting that off? Something about this particular trial he's going through?

    Questions for another time, really.

    So all he has is what he remembers having studied, but this is where perfect recall comes in handy. Every late night spent browsing Wikipedia or leafing through library books on random subjects can be recalled, the knowledge brought to mind, and he's always had a certain interest in classical antiquity. So he considers: how /did/ Theseus defeat the Minotaur, anyway? Many of the pictures show the hero grabbing the bull's horns to subdue him. He's said to need to feed on human flesh. In the Inferno he is the guardian of the Seventh Circle much as Geryon is the guardian of the Eighth, depicted as a man's head on a bull's body.

    Walking out into the arena is all Jon needs to know /that/ part wasn't accurate.

    The Archivist comes out with staff in one hand and sword in the other, and as he hears the roar of the crowd rather theatrically raises his sword and runs the adamantium-titanium staff along the electrum blade, letting out a shimmering, ringing tone. As he does so, the blade ignites with blue energy, and let's /not/ admit he got this idea from a video game, shall we? He'd never live it down.

    He eyes the bull-headed man for just a moment, taking a bow. He's not expecting the bull to play fair, and he listens for the sound of rushing hooves. As the bull rushes at him, thinking him vulnerable, he leaps to the side and lashes out with the khopesh, hoping to score first blood along the warrior's side.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The blade cuts very well, but the bull's hide is more solid that it looks, there is a smattering of blood on the dark sands of the arena but not as much as their should be. The bull's momentum carries him several yards past the point of expected contact and he spins, sending up a wash of sand behind him.

    "You fight well for one so small" the voice that comes from the Minos Bull is deep and gutteral, as if unaccustomed to speaking actual words. "I would know your name before I send you to the waters of the Phlegethon."

    Even as he waits for a response he grips the massive axe in both hands and starts forward. Once in range, he swing the weapon with the efficiency of one who understands that power and skill can work in tandem. He is the Lord's champion for good reason.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    By the time the bull manages to stop his momentum, Jon's already turned to face him again, noting the toughness of the hide even against enchanted electrum. Alright, then. He stays light on his feet, dancing back and then with a single flap of his wings taking to the air as the bull gets in range.

    "I am Jonathan Sims," he replies, sending a bolt of energy, channeled through his staff, down at the bull. "I am the Archivist." Another bolt of energy. "I am the Avatar of Ma'at. I defeated Saint Michael in multiple battles. I contained Asag. I defeated Geryon." Not alone, any of that, but boasting of his accomplishments is meant more as a way to demoralize his opponent than aggrandize himself."

    A grin splits his face. "You fight well for one so large and slow. Maybe in your retirement you can work on your speed?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Asterius takes both bolts with grunts of discomfort. They leave sear marks on his skin that smoke and smolder with angry red welts. He looks up at Jon from his airborne position and grits his teeth. "Good to know that Lord Chiron managed to find a true opponent to test my skills" he says.

    "It is true that I have grown slower in my complacency. A true challenge hasn't presented itself in eons. I grow tired of the harpies, or the demons, or the mortals who attempt to fight against me. His hand loosens on the axe and slides toward the end of the haft.

    "But one thing has not changed," he says rearing back with the mighty weapon, "my throwing arm is as mighty as ever" he says as hurls the axe end over end toward the Archivist.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Admittedly, Jon wasn't expecting the bull to /throw/ the axe at him. So the thing buries itself in his side, making him gasp, eyes widening. It looks like it ought to be a fatal blow--there's certainly enough blood--but it's on his /right/ side, and his heart is his only real weak spot.

    For a moment, as he tumbles out of the air, he panics. This wound /would/ have killed him, and he's barely left marks on the beast. He's going to die. Oh, gods, he's going to /die/.

    No, don't panic. Focus. Think. He's going to have to let the bull in close. Get him to let his guard down.

    It's not hard for them to lie on the ground, looking defeated, gasping for breath. They drop their sword, as if it's too much effort to hold any longer. They grab at the axe and --seemingly foolishly--yank it out of their side with a scream of pain. Blood flows freely, weakening them, but there's a purpose to it. Asterius eats humans, after all, and Jon must smell like a /very/ tasty meal to the bull.

    "P-please," they gasp, and they don't have to work to feign desperation and fear. Which is good, because they're nearly incapable of faking /anything/ anymore. "Please don't kill me."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Asterius trots to his fallen foe. "You should be honored. I have not bled on this field for many an age" he growls out as he stands over Jon. He inhales the smell of dying flesh and blood. "You will make a fine meal. I will honor the triumphs you have made human as I devour your flesh."

    He drops down to his knees and Jon can see that just under the bull's head is a spot of flesh that is lighter than the rest of him. A tender spot just where the massive head connects to the more man-shaped torso. If Jon's lucky he might have a chance of ending this quickly.

    The bull faced m an raises his head, exposing that tender area fully to the Archivist beneath him. "Lord Chiron. I present my fallen foe. The Archivist, slayer of angels, demons, and foes without class. I am the victor over him and thus his triumps will pass to me! I swear to carry his legacy with honor and strength!"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Oh, thank the gods, he didn't just fall to eating right away. That would have /sucked/.

    Jon strikes quickly, even while Asterius is declaring his victory. He jams the ankh on his staff right into that weak spot on the bull-man's neck, and then with every ounce of strength he has left in him, rips the staff to one side, opening the creature's neck and severing both the jugular and carotid arteries.

    "Bit... premature... to declare... victory... when I'm still... holding... a weapon." Every breath is labored, pained, but they manage to speak. "If you weren't... so eager... for a meal..." They laugh, and then cough, choking up blood.

    Jon does not drop his staff, nor take his eyes off Asterius, until he's certain the creature is /actually/ dead. He's not going to repeat the mistake his opponents keep making, presuming victory because an opponent seems weak or defeated.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    A sheet of red covers the dark skin of the Bull of Minos' torso and the beast jerks away from Jon as more blood pours from its throat. The noises it makes are more akin to a slaughtered cow than anything human, all gurgling bellows and wet cattle sounds (moos).

    He tries to scramble to his feet to do anything but die but the wounds are fatal and he knows it.

    He turns red tinged eyes on the Archivist and takes a step towards them with murderous intent before falling forward and digging his hands into the sand s the red blood pools around him and he goes still.

    There is silence from the crowd for a moment. A stunned silence. Then a single person starts to clap. And then another. And another and not long the entire crowd erupts in cheers for the Archivist.

    The large centaur in one of the box seats rises. He raises his hands and the crowd dies down to a low murmur "Archivist, you have bested my Champion and as our deal you will take his place" Chiron states. "But I am not an uncaring Lord. You will have time to rest and recover from your wounds. Once the task of healing is done, you will start your duties. Are we in agreement?"

    The overly lush demoness from before appears in Jon's vision and stoops beside him, helping him to at least a position where he can see Lord Chiron.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    For a long moment, Jon just lies there on his back, staring up at the sky, trying to catch his breath. His body may not be entirely real, but he can't seem to just force it to heal by his will alone. Probably because of the nature of Asterius' weapon. So he conjures sunlight in his magical right palm, and runs the light over the wound enough to get it closed up. Enough to get blood replenishing, to get the simulcarum of flesh healing. Enough to let him take the demoness' hand and sit up.

    He climbs all the way to his feet before he replies to Chiron. He imagines what Hope might say, the woman who calls herself Lady Death. How she'd sneer at him for weakness. He must project strength here, hide his naturally vulnerable nature. It pains him, and he quietly swears to himself not to let it change him, not to harden himself when he returns home.

    For now, he bows. "Thank you, Lord Chiron," he says. "For the honor, and for the respite. I will serve you loyally and well, for my tenure in this place."

    A year and a day. Another year, before he can get home. He can cry about it later. When there aren't demons watching.