[Preshow] The Dojo

[Karl Jak]

This area contains a mixture of gym equipment and physical fitness courses. Classes are available for signups, much like you'd find in a public gym. There are even a few private dojos where people can get in some last minute training in anything ranging from combat to general survival skills. Lessons are available for signup for those who have limited experience camping or being by themselves in the wilderness.

 

[Josuke Higashikata]

Maybe the best idea is to head to the dojo and see how his stand, Crazy Diamond, will perform in this deadly competition. Josuke leaves the lobby and heads into the dojo's wing with that in mind. Automatic sliding glass doors open suddenly when the boy reaches it, revealing a welcoming visitor area for newcomers. A friendly fit male Syntech trainer standing behind the welcome counter greets him when entering the dojo. "Hello, sir! Welcome to the dojo where we have the finest state-of-the-art gym in The Crossroads. May I offer you a class or a personal training session?"

"Hey, um, no thanks for the class offer. I'm looking more for an appropriate place to train my stand power." Josuke speaks up, approaching the counter in a chill manner.

"Ah yes, a personal training session is the way to go for what you are sporting. Here at Syntech, we have personal dojos designed to help perform special abilities that contestants hold. I can get one set up for you right now as we speak." The trainer wastes no time booting up a personal tablet with many useful apps to operate at this big company. "Would you like some comfortable gym clothing available for any contestant? There is no charge if you opt for it."

"No thanks, I will be fine in my clothing." Josuke declined the practical gym clothes option, but it was nice that this corporate company would be kind to give stuff like that for free. Not many things are free now where Josuke comes from in The Crossroads. After waiting for a couple of minutes, the stand user realizes the employee wears a simple name tag with the company's name and which specific department where the staffer stations. His name is Chris, making Josuke keep that in mind if he interacts with him more in the future. While he waits for Chris to finalize a room for him, the stylish pompadour teen looks wonders around the room with curiosity if he's not the only contestant here.

Looking around for a minute, no one was insight, and the gym sounded quiet with no one present in the public training stations. "Alright, Josuke, I've opened a private dojo ready to go for your use. Just follow behind me, and I'll gladly get you going."

Chris smiles in a kind manner back to Josuke, making him feel welcome in this new, unfamiliar environment. The young boy follows him into a hallway with a door on each side to access private training rooms. Numbers remain printed on the doors for the staff here can keep up with which one is available or not. Since Josuke was here first, all the doors had a green light over the doorway, letting anyone know of availability. Room 6 is where Chris sets for the contestant to train before preshow time ends.

"Here we are. Syntech offers the perfect training grounds for yearly participants. I'm interested to see what you got for going into this year's game." Chris is intrigued by what powers Josuke possesses, which could bring his interest to focusing on the stand user when the contest begins.

The room is well spacious to give a good area for influential users to train their abilities, seeing what limits their powers possess now. Josuke enters the room while Chris holds the door for him, following in afterward. Nothing is interesting in the room since the theme remains a dull blank slate, but a giant advanced hologram programming machinery mounts on the ceiling. The pompadour boy has never seen a gadget like this before and wonders about its primary use. He walks further into the room and positions himself in the middle, looking back at Chris standing near the door.

"Now then, let's get to training!" Chris is enthusiastic about readying Josuke for this year's exciting game. After Josuke hears his words, a spacious force field surrounds him to protect the trainer if any hazards happen. Throughout the years, some competitors have proven to be dangerous when they test their abilities. "What's above your head is a holograph maker that can create anything you want to put your powers through. What should we start first, Josuke?"

The Syntech trainer makes Josuke think after a minute, deciding what to put Crazy Diamond through.

"How about some bandits? I'm curious to see if Crazy Diamond punches efficiently." The stand user requests, intrigued by the quality of how these holograms will appear.

Chris uses his tablet, and within seconds, five holographic Hinterlands-styled bandits circled Josuke in a threatening manner. The holograms were impressively realistic, giving off a false sense of realism. One bandit interrupts Josuke examining them, making him avoid an incoming jagged knife swipe. He hops back, but a bandit follows in pursuit to stab him. Now that combat begins, Josuke wastes no time and summons his power, yelling the stand's name out loud.

"Crazy Diamond!"

A purplish aura surrounds his entire body, standing calmly and waiting for the stand to appear. Crazy Diamond appears out of thin air, readying his fists in a defensive stance in front of their attacker. The bandit goes on the offensive again, but his face gets greeted by a fast punch coming from Josuke's stand.

"DORA!"

The stand cries out aggressively when landing his fist on a dirty bandit's face. After Crazy Diamond retaliates, Josuke's attacker stumbles back, and before the bandit makes another move, he gets interrupted by a series of punches.

"DORARARARARARARARARA!!!!!!"

Josuke approaches the bandit with his stand, landing many punches on him, causing the hologram to disappear in defeat. With one falling, the remaining bandits close in to overwhelm him with attacks. The stand user goes on the move to avoid the multiple blades weapons swinging. Crazy Diamond remains on the offense, trying to send punches to the surrounding bandits.

"DORA!"

"DORA!"

"DORA!"

"DORA!"

While the simulated fight is happening, Chris watches in amusement to watch Josuke's unique power in use. One bandit manages to hit Josuke with the blade aiming for his head, but slices through his impressive pompadour instead due to how his opponent dodges. After the stand user realizes where the sword landed on his head, he panics about his hair's condition. His hands touched his hair cautiously to ensure he didn't receive an unwelcome haircut. After his touching confirms that the pompadour remains untouched, a little relief passes over him, but his temper becomes unleashed.

"You bastards will pay for touching my hair!" Josuke angrily yells, starting to lose his cool quickly, and lets Crazy Diamond go nuts on the attackers.

"DORARARARARARARARARARA!!!!!!!!!"

The stand shares temper with his user, feeling the same emotions since bonded. A rageful of punches land on the bandits, making them cease to exist immediately. After the holograms disappear, Josuke pulls a hair comb out of his pocket to fix the pompadour if it lost a slight shape from fighting and mutters to himself. "Why do they always have to go for the hair…."

"Very impressive! Your powers remind me of another contestant who participated before. He had a similar haircut as you, but it was a smaller pompadour than yours." Chris mentions, making Josuke instantly recognize the identity of that person.

"That was my bro, Okuyasu. I wished he could've returned this year, but he's got a nasty stomach bug." The stylish pompadour boy calls out, feeling disappointed not seeing his friend signup this year.

After training for a while, Josuke takes a break from a hard workout that made him sweat a lot. There was a good amount of fighting he did and testing out the restoration ability that Crazy Diamond obtains. It felt that his stand wasn't restoring anything firmly as Crazy Diamond does typically. The boy becomes curious if he can still heal others, but a feeling makes him doubt thanks to this collar to make the field leveled for all contenders. He and Chris stand by a water cooler in the dojo's main lobby to stay hydrated.

 

[Rebecca Chambers]

His search had taken longer than expected. Strange smells and even stranger sounds filled the all too alien facility he’d found himself in, a circumstance which led him to frequently wander off-course to investigate. There was also the matter of that bizarrely familiar scent he had caught wind of earlier… a tantalizingly repulsive scent that his mind struggled to identify, only able to determine that it was caught somewhere between that of man and beast.

Thus, having skulked throughout the halls of Syntech’s grand convention center to his satisfaction, Gascoigne finally stumbled upon the Dojo.

The heavy weight of his boots creaked across the glossy wooden floors of the Dojo as he entered, muffled sounds of combat drifting out from the private rooms secreted away further inside. Rather than ordinary walls, paper screens that resembled a mixture of wicker and cloth divided the space, lit by the glow of box-shaped lanterns hanging from the ceiling. A faint aroma of burning incense wafted over the room, a pleasant smokiness tinged with spice and florals simmering in the air.

There seemed to be a pair of men engaged in conversation across from the entryway, but the silver-haired hunter paid them no mind. Instead, he tromped doggedly past them, making a bee-line for the nearest official-seeming person in uniform.

After listening to Gascoigne’s request, the attendant at the front desk directed him to a small side room containing a sink and what appeared to be a toilet. Well, perhaps it was not so small to others, but for Gascoigne… the room seemed painfully close-quarters and cramped, his broad shoulders brushing against the walls as he moved about the tiny space. Regardless, he tucked himself inside, sealing the door firmly behind him.

With a flick of his wrist, the sink began to fill with crisp, clean water. Not wasting a moment, Gascoigne got to work— the hunter’s breath coming in harsh pants as he delicately prised the dirty, gore-streaked bandages from his face, carelessly tossing them into the sink.

The water inside was immediately churned into a rusty brown color by the hissing faucet, staining the porcelain bowl and sending a fog of sour-smelling steam into the air. His reflection blurred and shifted strangely in the mirror hanging over the sink, made indistinct by a combination of his damaged eyesight and the humidity blanketing the tiny room.

Reaching inside his coat, Gascoigne extracted several clean bandages from his pocket— nice, soft-smelling things given to him by the kindly attendant at the front desk. With practiced, exceedingly deliberate motions, the hunter set about wrapping them around his head, suppressing a hiss of pain as the scratchy cotton made contact with the skin surrounding the fleshy sockets of his eyes.

He was surprised to find them in far worse condition than he recalled from only a few days prior. Perhaps he would need to be more mindful of his limits...

 

[Sigmund Vrell]

Sigmund remained silently in the library as he watched Chara go. She was certainly a curious one, if nothing else. Despite all the progress he made in unraveling the secrets she held close to her chest, he felt as if he had only opened up more questions than answers. The cultist hoped that they didn’t end up clashing in the death game, but with the unpredictable nature of things, it could very well end up being impossible to avoid.

“Hmm… why can’t these death games ever just be simple.” He sighed before turning back to his eldritch tomes. “Ah, oh well.”

An unclear amount of time later, he emerged from the library. Among other things, the profane volumes scrambled his sense of time, leaving him uncertain of exactly how long he had been reading for. It mattered little, though, just as long as he hadn’t managed to somehow miss the event. Come to think of it, he didn’t really have a way to ensure that he hadn’t failed to show up on time. Slightly worried, he decided to go to the dojo. Surely, if any competitors were still around, he would find them there.

Making his way over to the trading grounds he passed a strangely dressed youth standing next to the water cooler, idly waving at him as he moved into the dojo. Well, it may not have been confirmation, but he felt reasonably sure that the young man with the impressive hairdo was another competitor, reassurance washing over him. Then, like a bolt of lightning, realisation hit the cultist. Sigmund looked over at the clock on the wall, simply reading the time like a normal person.

“Hmm… Ok, looks like I was only out for about an hour.” The scion murmured to himself, slightly surprised it was such a short amount of time. Scratching his chin, the psion glanced around the dojo. He hadn’t missed the start of the Abyss, so now what? The answer seemed rather obvious, get some training in before things kicked off, though looking at his own skinny arms the priest was skeptical about just how much good it could possibly do him. It was a real shame that practically all of his abilities were cut off by Karl’s insistence on an evenly-uneven playing field, but that’s just how things were sometimes.

Absent-mindedly walking up to a nearby punching bag, Sigmund took what he presumed to be a fighting stance, cringing a little at his own lack of skills. If his fighting instructor could see him now, he’d be spending a night out in the snow for slacking off on his training. Shaking off the doubt and taking a deep breath, the Mindbreaker threw his best haymaker at the bag. The blow struck home, and he could have sworn he almost saw it move. Or maybe that was just him getting pushed backwards slightly by the strike. Either way, not bad!

The cultist pulled back his fist for another shot when the soothing scent of incense was abruptly cut off by the sudden stench of blood. Sigmund paused, wondering if the tomes had done more damage than he realized while quickly wiping his nose to make sure that the exertion hadn’t managed to start the blood flowing again. As it turned out, however, he wasn’t bleeding at all, a realization undercut by the reek intensifying, sending a chill down his spine.

The stench was unique, but slightly familiar. It wasn’t anything he had ever smelt himself, but evidently one of the Vrells before him recognised this rancid odor, and it was prominent enough for its memory to echo through his ancestral memories. Flashes of nightmarish beasts, horrific amalgams of prey long-since consumed, lunging from rifts in reality to snatch up more unfortunate victims. The children of another Old Aesir, just as he was to Gal’skap. Even though the scent was distinctly different, the reminiscence brought a maniacal grin to his face, even as mortal terror took his body. Even as he clutched himself in an attempt to quiet the flight response of his treacherous flesh, he turned to the source, wondering who could be bearing such a potent scent. And its owner did not disappoint.

Sigmund was not a tall man, but this individual towered over him more than most. Had he wished to, the giant could have snapped the cultist like a twig, and the air he gave off suggested that he wouldn’t hesitate to if he was given a reason. Scars, an unkempt appearance, and those mysterious bandages over his eyes. While, certainly, looks could be deceiving, the older man seemed to be one who had already been touched by Madness. Fantastic!

“Hello there!” The mad priest chirped happily, even as he tried to pry away his own terrified hands as they desperately hugged his chest. As he glanced behind the giant of a man, he realized that he was blocking the way out of the bathroom. That was fortunate, the scion’s body certainly wouldn’t have objected to getting to use the toilet in that moment, but his warped will ignored its frightened requests. “Would you happen to be entering the Abyss?”

“...I am.” The man replied with a voice like gravel after a long look at the smaller priest. Despite the bandages covering his visage, Sigmund couldn’t help but feel as if there were eyes behind there boring into him. It was probably just his imagination, though. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time. It wouldn’t have even been the first time it had happened on the comet!

“Oh, fantastic!” The cultist said, genuine excitement in his voice as he held out one of his own trembling hands, forcing it to hold still as he noticed the shaking. “Sigmund Vrell, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Father Gascoigne.” The older man said, shaking the scion’s much smaller hand after giving it an inquisitive look. The psion mulled the foreign name over in his mind for a few moments, determined to get it right on his first attempt.

“Gascoigne. Father Gascoigne.” Sigmund repeated, breaking into a broad grin at his success. A man of faith, then? Things were getting very exciting, very quickly. He could already tell, this was going to be fun!

 

[Shinku]

Trevor’s exploration led him to another one of the domes that sported a variety of athletic equipment. On his way, he tried out his shadow pass, only to realize that his teleportation distance was significantly cut off. Similarly, he tried to brush it off, unable to do anything at his powered down abilities. He arrived right at the center of the dome after stepping out of the shadow realm.

He surveyed his eyes around the place, catching the sight of different fitness courses, playing fields, rings and dojos. What caught his attention however, was the sight of a particular dojo, framed through a small door opening. The backdraft almost resembled the style of their dojo back at his hometown.

“Higher!,” the voice of his father rang in his thoughts as he walked towards the section. A nostalgia of the past seeped in his mind, a momentary step back in time when he first learned to hold a sword. “Your feet are too far apart! And straighten your back!,” the distant voice in his head continued, so was the image of a father that was lost in time.

“Can I help you with anything sir?,” an actual voice this time, suddenly pulled Trevor out of his daydream. On his right, a man towering above him greeted the assassin of shadows with a rather charming smile. Trevor immediately faced the man and bowed in response.

“Can this dojo be used for training?,” Trevor inquired almost immediately after his brief gesture of greeting.

“Of course! That’s why we have it here after all,” the man politely chuckled before spouting his next words. “And by the way, Edward, at your service.” he continued, extending a hand for Trevor.

“Trevor,” he briefly responded, politely shaking the staff’s hand.

“And since you’ve been meaning to train here, would you fancy a spar?,” Edward offered.

“Yeah, I guess I’m in for one,” Trevor responded in an almost hesitant tone before letting go of Edward’s hand.

“Perfect! Now will you please choose your weapon?,” Edward beamed before pointing Trevor to a multitude of weapon racks lined by the wall just at the end of the private dojo.

Trevor turned to witness a large variety of melee weapons from pole arms, swords, maces, to fist-load weapons and several other strange ones. Instinctively, Trevor set his eyes upon the rack that contained the swords. The weapons were all dummy ones being made purely of wood, but each were carved almost perfectly enough to actually resemble the real ones except for the rounded edge of the blade parts for obvious reasons.

Among the swords, he cycled his choice among the shorter ones, swinging each one before finally settling with his pick.

Edward on the other hand, played his hands on a couple of buttons by the door. A single beep chimed before a sliding metal door sealed the only opening of the room while Trevor cycled among the short dummy swords.

“So you’re a swordsman eh. Good choice by the way,” Edward remarked once he noticed that Trevor had made his choice, before making his way to the weapon racks to take his pick. He similarly chose a sword but settled for a longer one.

They both made their way to the duel area after settling for their choice of weapon. They faced each other, merely a few arm lengths away just enough for them to stay out of each other’s reach.

“Let’s make this simple. First to make three hits win. No other rules this time, just fight in any style you like. Let’s see all of the tricks up your sleeve. You good?,” the Dojo staff instructed, waving his hand with a few brief illustrative gestures before grinning at Trevor.

“Got it,” Trevor responded as he formed his stance into a basic kendo pose.

“Enthusiastic are we? Very well. Our duel starts once this coin hits the floor,” Edward remarked before flipping a gold coin in the air, then pulling his right leg back, along with his weapon which he held close to his gut, its tip pointed at Trevor.

Their eyes met, as the coin flipped above the staff’s head. Then, the moment their timer reached the ground, Trevor stepped back then disappeared into a purplish smoke. He then appeared just behind Edward, in a decisive beheading strike.

“Sneaky!,” the Syntech Staff exclaimed, before pivoting himself just in time to block the assassin of shadow’s attack. A grin danced across the staff’s face but was short-lived as Trevor disappeared once again before making a flurry of sneaky attacks against all sides of Edward. The staff was quick to block every attack denying Trevor of his easy point. The assassin of shadow’s attacks however, almost drained the staff’s energy as he kept moving around to keep up with Trevor’s underhanded moves.

“Gotcha!” Unexpectedly, a straight kick found its way at Trevor’s gut, throwing him across the room. A light thud clanked on the soft, rubber floor as the assassin of shadows landed.

“Got the first point,” Edward smiled, as he walked back to their starting point. Trevor pushed his body back up before marching back to face his opponent.

“Same drill,” Edward remarked as a flipping coin left his thumb.

The moment the coin touched the ground, Trevor quickly dashed but disappeared before his sword could touch his opponent’s guard. Again, the assassin of shadows appeared behind Edward but this time, a little above the tall swordsman. Edward was about to make his turn when he immediately felt a restricting force on both his feet. He was able to turn his body halfway but not enough reach for the assassin’s blade so he decided to simply evade his opponent’s downward slash.

Without his teleportation this time, Trevor simply danced to strike his opponent from every side.

Edward’s shackles gave him a hard time turning around to dodge or meet Trevor’s sword. The condition proved fatal when Trevor was finally able to hit Edward right at the center of his back spine.

“Point,” Trevor briefly announced before teleporting back to his usual starting position.

“That was a clever one. A clever one indeed. Alright next bout,” Edward remarked before similarly getting into position. The shackles on his feet finally disappeared, giving back the staff’s freedom of movement.

Another coin was thrown in the air shortly after, causing both of the warriors to tighten their grips at their swords.

The assassin of shadows disappeared yet again at the first sound of the coin hitting the ground. He appeared just beside his opponent, his blade rushing towards its victim’s unguarded neck. Swiftly, the sword made it through however, it could feel nothing but merely cutting through air.

“Second one sir,” Edward announced, his voice surprising Trevor from behind. The image before the assassin of shadows dissipated which made the assassin finally feel the point of the blade right at the spot where he hit Edward earlier.

Trevor flinched, realizing that his senses had somehow dulled, failing to notice his opponent’s faint aura. A bit disappointed, he turned to march back to his starting point. Edward quickly did the same, having to move just a few steps forward.

“Fourth bout!,” Edward announced before tossing another coin in the air.

This time, Trevor began with shackling his opponent’s feet upon seeing the coin reach the ground. “Alright I yield for this bout,” Edward announced, before Trevor could step into his shadows. “Another point for you sir. And let’s move on,” he continued, before tossing yet another coin.

Trevor attempted his similar trick however, his opponent was able to quickly move out of place, before the coils on his feet could lock themselves. The assassin of shadows however, had to quickly step into his shadows to avoid a sudden straight thrust from his opponent. He appeared right behind his opponent and immediately launched an attack but it was successfully guarded then countered by a straight kick. Trevor however, was quick enough to retreat before Edward’s foot could touch his gut. He then disappeared again and a flurry of his sneaky attacks followed.

Clash of blades, missed kick, a failed shadow coil, the battle this time ensued significantly longer than the previous bouts. Both of the warriors danced around the battle area, covering almost the entire room with their duel.

“Third,” finally, an announcement from Trevor, his knee dug at his opponent’s balls.

Edward shrieked in pain for a while, stepping back a few tiny steps before he was able to stabilize himself. “Congratulations sir! That was an awesome fight!” Edward greeted, extending his hand at Trevor.

The assassin of shadows immediately shook his opponent’s hand before uttering another request. “Would you mind me staying a bit more?,” he asked before letting go of Edward’s hand.

“I certainly would not mind sir! The place is yours to train, or whatever you have in mind. I’ll be standing right over the corner in case you need anything,” Trevor announced in a full blown smile.

“Thanks,” Trevor responded, while gesturing a bow of courtesy. He then went on swinging his wooden sword as Edward stepped back from the battle area.

 

[Aster]

After a mostly-directionless and highly undignified stumble out of and away from the main lobby of this place, Aster finally managed to pull herself up and take a look around to regain her bearings. She had no real clue of where she was, aside from the helpfully-provided and easily seen signs that seemed to crop up just about everywhere.

"Really don't want people getting lost here, huh..."

Well, whatever. Gift horses and looking them in the mouth and all that. She wasn't going to complain.

A quick moseying meander around to just breathe (to get the taste of bile and breakfast's revenge out of her mouth) and relax her legs gave a decent enough scope of things. Of all places, she'd wandered into the dojo. And she had just enough knowledge kicking around in her head about what that word meant, and just enough of an idea of how Syntech operated to know it wasn't just a place for all sorts of fighty-whatsits like its name implied.

The questions she asked of various hapless and helpful Syntech employees and staff also helped fill in that blank.

One quick stop at a nearby water cooler to acquire some liquid of all life, and a short "Yo." to Captain Pompadour and friend, and she was off to go look into just what the place had to offer.

Of course, things just couldn't be that simple.

After only a minute, a smell hit her nostrils mid-sip that made her simultaneously choke on water, cough, gag and sneeze. She didn't retch this time, at least, but only barely. Having a mostly empty stomach made it easier to keep its contents down.

"What in the fresh fuck is that smell...?" she finally wheezed, one hand futilely trying to cover her mouth and nose at the same time. It was thoroughly, highly, extremely, VIOLENTLY unpleasant, and when she inevitably had to suck in a breath to hold she got a second whiff of it.

And it sent all kinds of unpleasant nasty chills racing up and down her spine.

Blood.

"Ugh...someone around here already smells like that," she groaned. "And this thing hasn't even started yet?" She sighed heavily, giving up on her attempts at ignoring or blocking out the stench. "Wonder if it's anyone from one of the earlier events...?" Trying to ignore how much it turned her stomach and made her want to run the hell away, she lifted her head up and took a deep sniff of the air. Turning this way and that, she bit down on the revulsion and anxiety steadily climbing up her spine again, and zeroed in on where it was coming from.

"Maybe I won't miss my super smell when this event starts," she murmured. She knew Karl Jak had a habit of limiting entrants into these things -- hell, even the masked dingus in charge of the minor leagues had a pretty similar habit. She didn't know all the particulars, but she vaguely recalled seeing something in the sign-up forms and papers about what would be limited, and heightened senses being one of them.

At least they were limiting ninja bullshit and hide-in-plain-sight powers, too. Evenly uneven playing field and all that.

Carefully she crept along toward the source of the bloody stench and paused outside a doorway. Both her hands curled and uncurled, clenched and unclenched. "Okay, Aster...you're a big girl. Just gotta peek in there and satisfy the curiosity. If it's somebody you know you'll know right away." And she took a deep breath, set her jaw and leaned forward...

...the door opened soundlessly (thank Terry), and the wolf girl got a look inside. Just two people there, unless some of that ninja bullshit was at work. One of them, the big giant crusty old blood-soaked gentleman, was giving off the absolutely vile smell. The other one, looking positively child-like and woefully scrawny in comparison, was...

Was...

"Oooooh, wow. Holy shit." Her caution was immediately flung to the winds, and her misgivings about the sickly smell of lifeblood hanging over the tall, spooky dude were momentarily forgotten as she barged into the room.

"Hey there, fellas," she said cheerfully. "Pardon my little interruption here, but I just gotta ask a real important question." With a grin, she fixed her gaze on the scion. "You're Sigmund Vrell, ain'tcha?"

The cultist cocked his head to one side, his expression faltering only a moment from his prior elation. "Yes, I am. Why do you ask? How do you know that?"

"Oh, wow." Aster's grin grew broader, and she turned to look up at the old man. "You hear this guy, Gascoin?" That was the big scary guy's name, right? She had only heard it muffled through the door. "How do I know that..." She shook her head. "Cause I watched every one of these death tournament-events like six times. How could I not recognize you, after how well ya did last time you showed in one?"

 

[Rebecca Chambers]

Ah, but Gascoigne had fallen into strange company this time, hadn’t he?

In spite of the new bandages covering his eyes, the hunter's ability to see was still severely impaired. The area around his damaged eye sockets had to be cleared of dead and sickly tissue, a slow and laborious process that had left his vision a blurred, confusing mess of watery colors and vaguely threatening forms. As such, he was unable to properly perceive the looks of the young woman who approached them… though he could read her manner and scent well enough.

Gascoigne remained motionless as she walked closer, hands itching for the familiar heft of his axe. Something thick and heady wavered in the air about her as she moved, breathed, and spoke— almost like the oily musk of an animal, even if it seemed to be cloaked in a bouquet of sneeze-inducing floral fragrances. It set his teeth on edge, his back molars grinding painfully together as he struggled to keep a neutral expression on his face.

Truthfully, only one thing prevented the hunter from reaching an especially damning conclusion, and that was his newfound companion, Sigmund Vrell. The boy seemed to be comfortable in the woman’s presence, not at all distressed by the apparent beastliness simmering in her blood. Either Vrell was a fool, or Gascoigne was mistaken. In an uncharacteristic move, the hunter decided to be charitable and trust the judgment of another.

Even still, he found himself unconsciously leaning forward as she spoke, ears straining to hear the tell-tale rasp of a beastly snarl in her words. He was almost… disappointed to note that she sounded entirely human, albeit with a faint accent he couldn’t quite place, all drawled vowels and relaxed pronunciation. Likewise, her shape appeared mostly indistinct through his bandages, an impressive length of pale grey hair flowing down from her shoulders to brush against the floor.

The boy, on the other hand… Gascoigne didn’t know what to make of the boy, truly. The silver-haired hunter was intimately familiar with this particular scent, even if he did not recognize the person attached to it. He had met the very same scent during his exploration of Inverxe's hollowed-out interior, and encountered it many more times besides; sometimes, he even dreamt of it. It was like the coldness of a fresh snowmelt laced with the fishy, salty rime-stench of the ocean— like a long night spent out on the hunt, the moon waxing full in the sky, gravid with secrets and the foul haze of blood.

Moon-scented, the boy was, and his peculiar manner only seemed to intensify under the full scrutiny of Gascoigne's senses upon that realization. Curiouser and curiouser…

As the pair exchanged words, the hunter merely looked on, seeming mildly perturbed. The woman spoke excitedly of past hunts, gushing over Vrell’s prowess. For some reason, that image did not quite match up with Gascoigne’s judgment of Vrell thus far; he had perceived the boy as a scholar of sorts based on his mannerisms alone, perhaps one of the hunters who used their wits in place of brute strength, guided by their powerful depth of insightful knowledge. Then again, both of the hunters before him seemed terribly young…

Minding fresh-faced hunters was not one of Gascoigne’s most favored of tasks. It was good, then, that Vrell apparently had experience. The young woman with the beastly smell about her, though… he was not so sure about her.

Gascoigne shook his head firmly. No sense in speculation. She could prove herself in the trials to come, couldn’t she? With that in mind, the hunter resolutely returned his attention to the conversation at hand.

“And what is your name?” Vrell asked the newcomer, voice brimming with interest. “You seem to know so much about myself. It’s only fair that we exchange names!”

“Ngk,” the young woman seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if stunned by the fact that she’d even been asked, before barreling on with tangible excitement, though it was clear she was aiming to put on a more casual air. “I’m Aster. Just Aster, nothin’ fancy. Don’t wear it out, y’know? By the way, uh— any chance I could get your autograph? Reeeeeeeal big fan.”

“Ah, but of course!”

As if she’d been waiting all her life for this very moment, Aster immediately whipped out what sounded like a notebook in a light fluttering of pages, practically slapping it into the cultist’s hands. A beat later, a light scribbling could be heard as Vrell drew out his signature, though it seemed like he was penning an entire dissertation in the process, the steady scratch of the pen broken by elaborate-sounding whorls of cursive lettering.

When the notebook was (presumably) returned, Gascoigne felt some of the attention shift to him.

“Sooo, what, are you two forming a partnership or something? That seems about right for the Abyss,” Aster wondered aloud.

“No,” said Gascoigne, at the same time that Sigmund burst out with an enthusiastic “Yes!”

There was an awkward pause. Gascoigne slowly turned to face the cultist, his head canting to the side. Even through the bandages concealing most of his features from view, the full brunt of the hunter’s scrutiny could be felt, uh… quite keenly.

“What,” Gascoigne gruffed. It sounded more like a statement than a question.

Sigmund faltered slightly, muttering softly under his breath, but seemed to rally himself in record time. “Well, it is only that I can sense a kindred spirit in you! You are a man of faith, yes? So am I! With our mutual dedication, we can surely overcome whatever challenges this year’s festivities might present.”

The hunter hmm-ed noncommittally, hemming and hawing just to make Vrell squirm a little in impatience. He had to admit, the kid’s exuberance was infectious… almost to a supernatural degree.

“A clever one, aren’t you?” A slight grin curled on Gascoigne’s lips, naught but a quick flash of incisors, but it was there all the same. “Even so, I'd rather see what you're capable of first.”

He could practically hear the gears turning in the scion’s mind, the slightest rustling of robes being the only indication that the younger man had shifted his stance. “Oh? You want to see a demonstration of my power?”

Gascoigne nodded, a fuller smile spreading over his face. “Aye. I should hope you have better techniques in a fight than what I’ve witnessed thus far.”

Huffing, Sigmund drew himself up to his full height. He was still rather tiny in comparison to the looming hunter, but Gascoigne could appreciate his boldness all the same.

“I’ll take you up on that. In fact, I have just the right thing in mind…” the scion said. Gascoigne heard the cultist turn, a slight whiff of that achingly familiar moonlit scent wafting over him as Vrell gestured to Aster. “And you! You should join us!”

“What, me?” Aster’s voice wobbled a little, though whether it was from dismay or genuine confusion, Gascoigne could not be entirely certain. The woman cleared her throat, scoffing. “I mean— hell yeah, I’m down. Though I don’t reckon we’ll be on the same level as Gasoline, here, big as he is,” she snickered, crossing her arms over her chest.

The trio began to walk at Vrell’s behest, leaving behind the mildly-battered sandbag. The corners of Gascoigne’s lips twitched downward at Aster’s extreme mishandling of his name, his head turning minutely in her direction. “It’s Gascoigne.”

“Yeah, Cologne. Got it.”

“No. Gascoigne.”

“... I really don’t think I’m pronouncing it wrong, guy?”

It seemed that Vrell had a destination in mind, having read off something or other from one of the many signs littered about the Dojo— Gascoigne couldn’t be bothered to read them, as much of a pain as it would be. A tinge of incense permeated the air as they followed the scion down one of the many hallways, the hardwood floors squeaking softly under their feet as they crossed them.

Finally, after scaling a set of stairs and meandering down yet another hallway, they arrived at the entrance to what appeared to be… ah.

Hm. Well. That was disappointing.

“An empty room?” Aster asked, peering in through the glass doorway. “Wow. That’s real impressive.”

“Now, now. This is not just any empty room!” Sigmund declared, throwing the door wide open and strolling inside, like a child giddy to receive a gift from a long-absent parent. “It’s the empty room! I’ve heard all about it from…” he mumbled something indistinct with far too many syllables. “Apparently, there was some sort of creature held in captivity by Syntech last season that could manifest one’s worst fears before them, all based on emotional manipulation. Syntech harnessed that same power to create this training room. Marvelous, isn’t it?”

Gascoigne, who had followed the cultist inside, paused in the middle of the room, turning in a slooooow circle to ensure he had scanned the full breadth of it. “Some kind of witchery, is it?”

“Witchery,” remarked Vrell, as if trying the word out for himself. “Yes, I suppose you could call it that.”

Aster entered last, clearly hesitant, her footfalls echoing loudly across the concrete floor as she carefully edged inside. Gascoigne's senses were still pricked by the beastly scent that clung to her, though it was diminished now, easily overlooked in favor of focusing on other, more important matters. “Okay… and how does it work?”

“Good question, and one that I have no clue about!” Vrell paced about the room, evidently searching for something. “I mean, you would think there would be an incantation, or a spellbook, a button, something or other…”

Hmph. Still standing at the center of the room, Gascoigne chuckled quietly to himself, though the sound was disconcertingly echoed throughout the vast space. This seemed to be more of a lark than anything, but the company was entertaining, at least.

The silver-haired hunter sighed a little, mostly to himself. An old man like him, banding up with a pair of almost-children. Would that his former hunting partner could see him now…

Only a fleeting flash of memory overtook him then, so short-lived that it disappeared just as quickly as it came. Just a brief flight of fancy, really, that he pictured quite clearly: a darkened street of Yharnam, orange flames flickering across the cobbles, splatters of rancid blood pooling in the gaps between. Only, one moment that image was contained within his mind’s eye, perfectly secure within the security of his own head, and the next—

Like a silvery ripple across the surface of a pond, the bland concrete flooring and walls flickered, undulated, changed. And in the space of a second, the seemingly empty, boring room was transformed into something entirely different.

“Whoa now,” Aster breathed. “That’s trippy.”

Trippy, indeed. Gascoigne looked about himself in bafflement, taking in the sight of a… distinctly familiar scene.

For the room around them had been undoubtedly replaced by the sprawling, plague-ravaged streets of Gascoigne’s home. The city of Yharnam, engulfed in flames and haze, raged all around them, the nighttime air almost sounding like it was sighing as the city slowly slipped into its inevitable decay. Crumbling, decadent stonework and elaborate gothic spires thrust up against the smoke-riddled sky, seeming especially striking under the ruddy crimson glare of the full moon.

Distant sounds of strife and suffering echoed in the small hunting party’s ears, a beastly screech sounding clearly over the cawing of a nearby gathering of crows. Gascoigne’s shoulders hunched on reflex, countenance darkening as he readied for a fight.

“It worked!” Sigmund exclaimed over the caterwauling of the crows, nearly incandescent with admiration. “Oh, but look around, look around! How majestic!”

“... Majestic, perhaps, but only a memory,” drawled Gascoigne slowly, still drinking in the sights, smells and sounds of the strange vision before him. The trio stood inside the burned-out skeleton of a building, the timbers crumpled into a blackened rib cage around them, thick ash choking the air. “But how?”

“I dunno, Guacamole, but it looks like we’ve got company!” Aster pointed out into the street. At her words, a pack of shadowy men—deranged huntsmen, Gascoigne realized—turned the corner, bearing torches and bristling with pitchforks and, well, other farming implements suitable for maiming. The huntsmen didn’t seem to have caught wind of them yet, but they assuredly would soon enough.

Gascoigne glanced at the apathetic sky above, silently pleading with it for strength even as he made ready for a fight. “Stay keen, hunters. And again, for the last time. The name’s Gascoigne.”

“Hearin’ ya loud and clear, Escargot.”

 

[Sigmund Vrell]

A wide grin split Sigmund’s face as he held back maniacal laughter. Mr Jak’s simulator was even more potent than he had expected, a new illusion plastered over the one that they called reality. To the mad cultist, the change was rather arbitrary. One false existence, naught but the dream of an Old God, had little of note to separate it from another. That said, the chance to partake in some risk-free, and guilt-free, violence wasn’t one he was afforded often, and he was glad to accept it.

“Damn… it feels so real.” Aster whispered, letting out a tiny whistle of appreciation, careful not to let the crowd of mindless huntsmen hear her.

“It may as well be.” The priest grinned, absent-mindedly snatching up an old, rusted trowel as they snuck along. “I mean, what’s really real, really?”

The oldest of the trio shushed his companions as they passed through an alley, a low growl sounding from his throat as the group sighted their prey. Another trio of the maddened husks patrolled the roads before them, unaware that they were being stalked. With a brief signal to his hunting party, very subtle but surprisingly clear in the directions he was giving, Gascoigne lunged forward. In a blink, the Hunter went from bare-handed to swinging a massive axe at the nearest of his foes, the cumbersome weapon apparating in his grip.

Sigmund let out a joyous cackle as he followed suit, springing towards the simulated huntsman on the right while Aster lunged towards the one on the left, wielding a rusty pitchfork. The priest swung his trowel like a dagger towards the throat of the husk of a man, hearing his heart beating excitedly in his ears even as his foe parried, catching the trowel between the prongs of his own farming tool.

The cultist stumbled back as the huntsman pushed him back and brought his pitchfork around, plunging it into the young man’s thigh. Sigmund grit his teeth and let out a hiss through his teeth, unwilling to let out anything resembling a cry of pain. As if something as simple as being impaled through the thigh would stop him!

Releasing his held breath with a battle cry, the psion lunged forward, even as the fork dug deeper into his flesh. With his free hand, he grabbed hold of his foe’s shoulder before bringing his makeshift dagger down into the space between his neck and collarbone. A visceral spray of blood showered the cultist as his victim let out a horrible gurgle, stumbled back and dropped to the ground, dead. The panting cultist let out a wicked laugh as he grabbed ahold of the pitchfork and wrenched it from he leg, another jet of gore bursting from the wound. It hurt like the real thing, but that really didn’t phase Sigmund at all. The fact that he knew his wound would vanish as soon as the simulation ended put his mind at perfect ease, despite the agony that his body was insisting that he was feeling.

Turning over to his companions, he watched Aster dispatch her chosen foe with a quick thrust of her own pitchfork. Father Gascoigne, on other hand, had a much more unique weapon. His opponent seemed quite a bit tougher than the ones that his amateur hunters had taken care of, blocking the heavy blows that the seasoned warrior was throwing his way. Then, with practiced ease, Gascoigne hopped backwards and quickly did something to his weapon. In a flash, mechanisms whirred to life and his axe morphed into a fearsome halberd.

Sigmund’s eyes widened in awe at the weapon, his pupils practically dilating like an excited cat. He wasn’t quite sure what exactly he was looking at, but he liked it very much. With an animalistic roar, the hunter swung the trick weapon with everything he had. The brute raised his pitchfork in a desperate attempt at a parry, but with the sound of splintering wood, he was left staring dumbfounded at his bisected weapon as the axe’s edge descended towards his face. With a wet ‘schink!’, the huntsman’s head, and a significant portion of his upper body, was split in twain. With a kick, Gascoigne pulled his weapon free, glancing around with a bestial look in his… well, not in his eyes, but certainly on his face.

“That was incredible!” The scholar gushed, rushing over to peer at the older hunter’s weapon, leaning close but leaving a safe distance from the halberd, as if it even the handle could cut him if he got too close. And to be honest, he didn’t know for a fact that it couldn’t. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Quite a fine piece of engineering, isn’t it.” The Father said, grinning wickedly at the weapon. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing it again until the end of this competition.”

“I’m impressed that you managed to conjure it up so naturally. You must be very familiar with it.” Sigmund mused before glancing at his own weapon/gardening utensil and tossing it aside. If Gascoigne could conjure up a weapon he was familiar with, why not him? Admittedly, he didn’t have a weapon that he himself used, only his tome which he didn’t feel would do much to impress the hunter, especially since it wasn’t exactly going to translate over into the competition. Instead, he dredged up his ancestral knowledge, searching for a weapon he thought would impress the hunter.

With a grunt, the cultist swung his arms, feeling the strangely familiar weight of a weapon he had never used as he called forth the greathammer of the sixth scion, the one before his father. He let out a cackle as he brought the weapon down, quickly changing into a gasp of surprise as the handle struck straight up into the air, bringing its wielder with it. The scion hung awkwardly in the air for a few moments before letting go, dropping to the ground next to the weapon. “Erm… maybe not that one.” He chuckled.

Calling upon his ancestors once more, he briefly considered bringing forth Erik’s sword, Mageslayer. Deciding that it lacked the brutal edge that he imagined Gascoigne would appreciate, he instead went with something a little more vicious. Throwing both hands behind him, a pair of hand axes belonging to the fourth scion appeared in his grip. Twirling them with practiced ease, the cultist grinned at the ornate hatchets.

“Haha, like reuniting with old friends.” He cackled. They felt at home in his hands, and he was looking forward to carving a few more mad huntsmen apart with the twin blades. Sigmund flicked a glance at Gascoigne, looking for any sign of approval, or lack thereof. The hunter was definitely appraising him and his choice of weapon, but the young man was struggling to read the older man’s expression. His attention was pulled away by Aster nudging the pair and pointing down the streets to another troop of patrolling huntsmen.

“Hey, Sigmund, Escapade, we’ve got more company.”

“Gascoigne.” The pair corrected simultaneously, the Father in exasperation and the psion in a genuine attempt to help.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

 

[Rebecca Chambers]

Father Gascoigne headed their little procession through Yharnam, his figure cutting an imposing shape in the darkness. As they climbed the city streets and picked their way down the narrow, winding alleyways snaking throughout the city, however, it soon became evident that the hunter had a particular destination in mind— his nose pointed straight ahead, leveled at a tall collection of spires looming in the sky over the fiery streets below.

“Where are we headed, Father?” Sigmund spoke up at last, flicking his hand axes to clean them. A mess of gore splattered over the cobbles under his feet, glittering in the moonlight.

Gascoigne paused beside the crooked shape of a small streetlamp, the flickering lantern illuminating the street around them in a ghastly fog. He seemed to mull over the question, mouth curling into an expression of distaste.

“The city is sick, hunter,” he said at last, turning to face them. “Anyone can see that. The streets are flooded with corruption, but this scourge did not appear overnight. Think of the source of that sickness, the heart of the infection… How do we treat this infection, eh?”

Aster stood at his other side, every strand of fur on edge at the tone in Gascoigne’s words. She chewed on one fingernail, anxiously watching the street ahead of them for further signs of trouble. “Well… ya cut it out, right?”

That savage grin turned on her. “Right you are, Aster. Right you are. Now, let us continue on— our mark is near.”

The trio cut through one final horde of vermin, the scion’s madness and the wolf-girl’s spirit blending well with the priest’s savagery. They emerged from the bloodied streets at the other end of a long, ruined bridge, the tarnished orange of the sky almost seeming to burn against the crumbling spectacle of the city.

Across the bridge stood the ruins of an old building that had clearly, at one point in time at the very least, been a magnificent structure. Under the brunt of the vicious decay overtaking the city, however, its glorious columns and vaulting arches had fallen into a pathetic state of disrepair.

Gascoigne grimaced at the sight, tearing his gaze away. Re-centering himself, he squared his shoulders into a fighter’s stance, ears pricked for any signs of the vermin he knew would be skulking about nearby.

He was not left waiting for long.

From atop the tall, winding spires of the building came a long, ear-piercing shriek. A massive beast hurled itself downward with a mighty crash upon the cobbles below, the immense antlers curving out from its emaciated, almost skeletal-seeming skull glinting fiercely in the moonlight.

“What in the fresh hell is that?!” Aster breathed, voice muffled under the sound of the beast’s agonized screeching.

Gascoigne laughed, though not unkindly.

“That… is our prey,” he rasped, and then the beast was upon them.

The creature rushed at them in a flurry of claws and teeth, the bristling mane of gray fur covering its body rippling with every movement. They spread out in different directions, with Gascoigne taking the lead by attempting to draw the beast's wrath onto himself alone.

One of its arms was noticeably larger than the other, standing out starkly against the rest of its emaciated, shriveled body. Wolfish claws pawed at the ground as the beast moved, long-knuckled fingers evocative of its former humanity. Sunken-in eye sockets glared down at the trio of hunters, blood oozing from the empty pits and mixing with the drool spilling from between its slavering jaws.

“We,” Gascoigne snarled, narrowly avoiding a swipe of the beast’s oversized arm, its claws slicing past his head in an uncomfortably warm gust of wind, “Are the servants of the Gods… and the messengers of their justice.”

CRASH! The blow shattered the ground where Gascoigne had previously stood into a dust cloud of splintered stone.

Still moving with the power behind the attack, the beast staggered, struggling to maintain its balance. Breathing hard, the silver-haired hunter hauled back his halberd, listening for the pitter-pattering of boots to inform him of the location of his allies.

“We— are the instruments—“ the hunter pronounced haltingly, grunting as he slammed his weapon into the beast’s rib cage over, and over, and over again, a curtain of fetid blood spewing over his face and clothing. “—of their divine wrath on Earth.”

Melting from within the beast’s shadow, Sigmund leapt from behind, attempting to hack at its leg with one of his hatchets in a flurry of frenzied blows. A terrible, bone-rending scream was ripped from the creature’s vocal chords as it made to turn and savage the cultist, but by then Aster was approaching from an entirely different angle, expertly leveling her pitchfork to impale the flailing creature’s arm, determination burning in her gaze.

Gascoigne grinned madly, enlarged canines glittering as he pounced— beginning to hack away at the gargantuan beast’s other leg, the ugly crack of splintered bone echoing in his ears. “We are called upon, to cleanse their kingdom…“

THWACK. “—bringing ash.”

SCHWING. “From the flesh—“

THWACK. “—of thine enemies!”

At last the monstrosity stumbled, one leg cut off at the knee from a well-timed below of Vrell’s hand axes, shredded tendons and ruined muscle spurting dark lifeblood all over the ground. It tipped like a great fallen oak, a piercing cry that sounded like a cross between a feral animal and a human screaming in anguish tearing across the nighttime sky.

In what seemed to be a last desperate bid to wreak vengeance upon its attackers, the beast lashed out at Aster— a gigantic hand flailing wildly to grasp around her leg and drag her to the ground. The wolf-girl bit back a pained howl as biting heat lanced up the trapped limb, staring in distant horror as the beast clambered over her, its massive canine maw parting like the jaws of hell itself to tear into her flesh.

BOOM! A shot rang out, a terrible crack like the tolling of thunder. It smashed through the beast’s skull, plowing straight into its brain, scattering shards of bone and assorted viscera all over Aster and the cobbled street behind her.

Gascoigne stood, conjured pistol loosely grasped in one hand, a cloud of gunsmoke swirling lazily in the air. His chest heaved with a satisfied sigh.

“Umbasa.”