The Winter Arena

[mpdscott]

Now then, if everyone for my sake could think 11 or 12 I would appreciate it.

Yes....please think of Entrant 12...he'll need all the positive energy going his way that he can get....

[Brave Sir Robin]

I have sent my entrant in via PM to Arklite, hope I'm not too late.

[Arklite]

he's not ^_^

and we have our 16 combatants!

expect to see fluff appearing on boxing day as well as an overview of all the characters entered so far.

[xanaq]

ok, i`ll check this again in the new year, see if any matches been done.

[Bluehorrors]

oooooooooooooooooooooo can u please hold me a spot ill make up a character now.

[Bluehorrors]

oh bother, missed it again.

[DavidWC09]

Bluehorrors is waiting to bring Kraken back!

Have fun guys. I look forward to following this one. Plus, it's good to see some new blood in the arena.

[Arklite]

Don Jerald walked down the street towards the Palace. The mere thought of that buffoon of a general residing in the duke’s palace was an affront to everyone in the city, everyone who deserved an opinion on the matter at least. The building was a shadow of its former self, fortifications had sprung up across its courtyard over the past year. Coach yards had become drill squares and guest halls had become barracks. The fact that the gardens had remained was irrelevant, they had never interested Jerald, a pretty addition to a symbol of the superiority of the noble class, now a mocking reminder of how close it had been. Something was wrong however, Jerald could feel it. The Courtyard was a buzz of activity. Workmen hurried back and forth leading carts of wood and stone to and from unseen places on the estate. The drone of construction hung in the air like an annoying insect. He was up to something.
He walked up to the nearest guard, a sergeant by the markings on his shoulder. The man was an example of the City’s soldier class. Hard men, loyalty to the Median ingrained into his soul as much as his mind. Loyalty that was earned Jerald had to admit. However much he hated Mode, he had to respect the man’s ability as a commander. It was why Jerald had organised his appointment to the post of legion commander in the first place. If only the man was as good at following orders as he was at winning battles. The sergeant snapped to attention at Jerald’s approach, something he suspected Mode taught them as a sly joke on his part. A neatly trimmed beard was the mans only distinguishing feature to separate him from his fellows. The dark blue jacket of the City’s pike men was a common facet in day to day life these days. The uniformed guards always visible on their rounds, it was oppressing.

“I wish to find the General, where is he at the moment?” The guard’s eyes were marked with an uncanny intelligence for someone of his rank. His response however was typical. “The General is at the Duke’s arena at the moment my Don, overseeing the renovation efforts.” His accent was coarse, but his manners were apt. from the merchant families perhaps. Jerald gave the sergeant a nod and made his way into the palace grounds. Instantly the gardens assailed his nose. Roses and Jasmine spread across the beds and walls of the gardens like weeds, their order was neat enough but their presence was alien to Jerald. They were without function to such a place. How could a man that seemed so practical be so obtuse? The duke might have been an oppressive fool but he at least understood how things were done.
Gravel crunched underfoot as Jerald made his way up the frosty path the winter was unnatural, his water clock had frozen solid last night. He would have words with the clockmaker once he was done here. Weaves of ice danced their way along the walls of the palace turning the stone a not unpretty tone of white. Jerald paused. The flowers, how on earth were the flowers alive? The thought perplexed him for a moment as he studied a nearby flower. Its leaves were unmarked my the touch of frost and its petals were even wet. Reaching out a strange feeling of warmth filled his arm and slowly climbed its way along his shoulders, magic. Snapping his hand back Jerald considered the implications… Mode was a mage, that was well known. He had acted as the city’s primary battle mage against its enemies but this was unreal. The thought that the man would spend his energy on something so frivolous as to protect a garden? It was preposterous… but the fact was not lost on Jerald, mode was willing to do this and wasn’t concerned about the risks involved.

Drokki thumbed through the plans in front of him with a feeling of satisfaction and pride. The arena was coming together nicely and the reports from the nearby mountain were excellent. This venture was proving a most profitable exercise to say the least. the gold alone was well worth the job he was being asked, the renovation of an old beat up stadium, the fact that the manling had offered a nearby mountain as well had been plain confusing, but it was becoming clear. The mountain had proven to have deep seems of ore and gemstones, far beyond the reach of anyone but dwarven miners and it seemed this manling knew that. “you offer far too much for the job mode” Drokki warned him again, not quite sure if the whole affair was a trick “the ore alone in those mountains is worth more than this job a hundred times over, and you wish to simply give it to the dwarves?” that was another curious part of the whole affair. The manling for some reason specified that it was to be given to the dwarves, not anyone in particular. “Indeed master Grungbad, to have the elder race to trade with in this area would bring prosperity to both of our peoples.” The manling was right again, he was trying to cultivate a friendship with the dwarves and if history was anything to go by, media would need all the help it could get. “besides my own miners are unable to get anything from the mountain now, their mining craft is no where near good enough for the task. It would be fruitless to leave it there. How is the arena coming?” Drokki returned to his plans, the truth of the matter was it was progressing incredibly well. The prexisting structure was built on dwarven foundations saving a horrendous amount of time. The Runesmith Barauk Falfik had made steady progress with the runes of protection on the arena walls and the human labour force had been most accommodating to the requirements of the dwarven stonemasons, bringing hard granite from the quarries to the north. “well, we should have the structure finished by the end of the week. The miners report that the pit running the platform is complete as well, they wish to have some limestone however.” The manling raised his eyebrow at this clearly interested. Drokki considered letting him in on the knowledge, he had already given so much it only seemed right he should be allowed this little titbit. “they wish to base the pit with concrete. It’s a mixture of lime, ash and pumice. You already have the latter two down there but they need the first. It’ll give you a solid base, easy to clean.” Mode seemed evidently pleased by the idea and quickly grabbed a passing aide to make the order. This one knew what he was doing it seemed.

A flash of colour towards the edge of the arena caught Drokki’s eye. Another manling had appeared, dressed in gaudy cloth seemingly fashionable within the human “nobility”. Wide frills impractical as they were ridiculous spun out from every edge and corner. A black cane was held loosely in one hand while the other fidgeted restlessly on his collar. Mode had noticed the man as well and a wide malicious grin had suddenly spread across his face. Drokki had seen this look before on the face of some of his old masters. This will be interesting to watch.
“what is the meaning of this Mode? What harebrained scheme are you implementing this time” the mans voice was deep and refined as far as manling speech went. The tone however was vicious and aggressive. The man could only be a very close friend or a political enemy. “Ah, Don Jerald how good it is to see you at my humble abode. Forgive me for not inviting you to see the progress sooner” an enemy then. “the work should be complete by the end of the week according to master Grungbad here.” That certainly caught the nobleman unawares. “what should be complete?” the man was suspicious now, he was being confronted with something he had no idea about and had become defensive, a coward then. “why don’t you know?” the malice strung out into that single sentence made Drokki struggle to keep a straight face, this manling was good… very good. “No I do not know General, please be kind as to tell me what in Morr’s name is going on.”
“For that I shall have to show you a letter, if you would please follow me to my office? Master Grungbad, I leave the work to your more than capable hands feel free to request anything you might require. Don Jerald, this way if you please” Drokki watched the two men leave, the difference between their paces telling the whole story. Mode’s casual step jaunty and upbeat while the Don walked with cautious efficiency. “I’ll have to stick around for this one I reckon” Drokki mused “it’s been a while since I’ve seen an arena anyways.”

[Arklite]

Arena Enterants:

Daelrog

Warriors of Chaos
Exalted Hero
Mark of Nurgle
Chas Steed (Barded)
The Father of Blades
Armour of Damnation
Favour of the Gods

Name: Izmael, Mutantkin

Izmael was bron to a noble family from Wissenland, but due to his mutations was left to die, sent down a raging river. He was not to die that day though, as he was found and taken by a band of Strigany who felt for the young mutant, having been persecuted themselves.
Izmael grew up with a strong set of values, to help out those who were born weak, and to cast down their oppressors. However, stories of a 'Mutant Warlord' reach the ears of the Witch Hunters, forcing Izmael to abandon his adopted family and travel to the Chaos Wastes.
Not much is known what happened up there, though it is certain that he pleased the gods. Nurlge in particular took a fondness to the defender of the mutants. Upon reaching the Realm of Chaos, he was gifted with black chaos armor. His small horns grew a foot-and-a-half long, and his eyes burned sickly green. His tail grew strong and flexible, and was given the promise of immotality if he could rise the mutants up in rebellion, and slay his family by blood. Izmael set off, wrapping himself in his worn, brown cloak, his only treasure from his Strigay friends.
Izmael has an unusual fighting style. He wields only a small dagger, and fights similar to the Strigany, but his tail which can be used as a third arm, or a thrid leg, along with his superior abilities makes him resemble the Dragon Monks of Cathay far more.

Avatar of Khaine

Avatar of Khaine

Wood elf wardancer highborn
blades of loec
stone of crystal mere

Colteron is a wood elf, the barstard son of a female warhawk rider and an alter. He inherited a love of birds and flight, and the power of shapeshifting, but also the isolationism of an alter. He spent most of his time high up in athel loren, riding great eagles to hunt and conversing with the many birds that nest in the great forest.

Over time, he grew many aspects of the eagles he hunts with. He has a beak, although he is probably still able to talk. His arms end in vicious taloned fingers, excellent for seizing prey or gouging an enemy. His feet too, have bird-like talons to grip on to the branches on which he roosts. He appears to wear a long hooded cloak of feathers, although this turns out to be wings when he spreads his arms, which he is able to fly with. Aside from this, he wears light-blue coloured clothing, and a small teardrop pendant worn by his mother before her death at the hands of the beastmen, which provides him powerful protection from blows.

When he fights, he uses only his iron-like claws and beak as his weapons of choice, and will fight on the ground or in the skies as he chooses, aided by his winged hunters. He attacks viciously, commonly attacking the eyes and similar weak points. Since he uses no weapon, he is significantly faster than most others, and so can slash the jugular with his claws in the blink of an eye.

He has also developed a longing to return to elven society, which he will commonly watch from high above. One winter, when the majority of small birds had gone, leaving him with only the bigger hawks and eagles for company, a flyer for an arena drifted past his high perch on an upcurrent. He snatched it, and read the details. He quickly plucked (no pun intended) up the courage to attend it, reasoning that no other wood elves would be there to see him in the middle of winter, and it would be a start to rejoining society. He was confident in his abilities, and his friends would help him as well.

Although he had spent a lot of time with birds before his mother's death, it was that which drove him away from elven society, becoming an alter. His father's attributes were brought out by this, and amplified by his own, causing his dramatic change of shape. Now that he is coming to terms with his mother's loss, he has begun to long to return once more to elven society.

Fixing his hawk-like eyes on the distant city, he launched from his perch with a hawk’s cry, his hunters of the wind following.

Ginger ninja

Name: Nurkzeg Nutcruncher
Race: Black Orc Warboss
Items: Heavy Armour, Enchanted Shield, Martog's Best Basha, Warboss Um's Best Big Boss's At, Ironback Boar

Background:
Nurkzeg is not you common old garden Black Orc. They have always seemed more competent, although larger than the average greenskin. Nurkzeg is different. He is more than competent. His skills amongst the Orcs of the mountains are legendary.

He is now looking for a challange, something to bring him back from the boredom of slaying the countless rats in the hills, or the simple dawi folk that claim the mountains as their own. He is coming for the glory of the greenskins, to slay pointy ears, ummies and the dead and damned alike.

(This is a foreword by a human poet.....)

In the words of Nurkzeg Nutcruncher: I am da bestest, and I am cummin for you!!!! WAAAAAAAGGGGHHH!!!

King Ulrik flamebeard

Gunthur Ironhide

Gromril Armour
Great Weapon

MRoGromril
MRoKragg the Grim
RoFire
MRoSpite

Total = 246pts


Where exactly Gunthur is from is unknown, he is known in dwarf lards as the 'Wanderer'. He holds no claim to hold, nor king, he fights for his own reasons, and his alone. An age worn woollen cloak swathes his form, the deep rich blue long faded to light, splattered with mud and dust from his travels. Beneath his cloak, and his long, grey beard, there are occasional glimmers of silvered metal, hammered into layers of iron hard scales. Gripped firmly in his hand, often used as a walking stick, he holds his axe; Grudgestriker. Fiery runic inscriptions edge the weapon, its gleaming blade has claimed the lives or hundreds of enemies. A golden necklace bearing a hammer and the rune of Grungni hangs loosely from his neck. His tanned skin bears many scars from decades of fighting and war. A small book hands from his waist, within its pages are scores of names with lines through it. Each time he battles a skilled opponent, he asks for their name - writing it in this book. Each name crossed out shows his numerous victories over these champions.


Da Mighty Camel

Little Brom, knight-for-hire
Templar Grand Master

- ‘Big Bertha’ (Sword of Power)
- Shield of the Gorgon
- Good ol’ family heirloom (The White Cloak)
- Full-plate armour
- Waffles (barbed warhorse)
245pts

1+ armour, 5+ ward (2+ ward against flaming attacks)

Brom have been travelling the Old World for a good twenty years, hiring out his services to whoever pays best. Brom is known among mercenary companies throughout the Empire as a loveable and easy-going man who is either seen fighting or eating. Indeed, he is known to do both at the same time on occasion. Many would think of him as a bit wide around the waist, but does who tell him that rarely leave the pub walking straight (some take the their leave through the window).

Brom’s axe was given to him by his father a long time ago. The weapon, named ‘Big Bertha’ after one of Brom’s ancestors, is a massive two-handed great axe, but in line with the family tradition Brom have learned to swing it with single-handedly. His cloak is said to have been “found” in a Temple of Ulric by a certain uncle who had a hard time controlling his cleptomania.

Most of the time Brom is simply looking for the best deal for his services, but he is known to side with those whose motives he thinks serves the people best. He have betrayed his employers in the middle of a fight when it became known that they were going to hurt innocent people and on some very dire occasions he have lent out his skills without demanding payment.

Brom and his most trusted companion, the horse Waffles, might look a bit out of place on the blood-stained battlefields of the Old World, but whatever preconceptions the enemy might have is quickly swept aside by sweeps of his huge axe.

Archonfarseerguy

-2247, The Great Bastion, Cathay
The crisp morning air was well complemented by the presence of the sun, and not a breath of wind. This was set to be a day of brilliant weather.

Sharply, the warning cry went out, "the Hung are back!!!' The Cathayan army scrambled into their equipment, and raced to man the Great Bastion.

Like flies, the Hung tribe covered the plains, racing towards the mighty wall, warcries ringing out for miles. The Cathayans released a swarm of black-shafted arrows, felling several of the nomads, but they continued to press forwards, despite volley after volley.

Scaling up several ropes and ladders, the chaos tribe began to press the defenders, who refused to go down without a fight. The Cathayans were well trained, and slew countless Hung, but there were too many followers of the dark gods, and they began to relent under the pressure.

General Wang joined the fray, accompanied by the finest Dragon Guardsmen in the land. At first, it looked as though they might actually defeat the hordes, but then the mighty Warlord Gansükh made his move, decked out in full armour, wielding a massive glaive- at least twice the size of any of the Cathayans. His strength was terrible to behold, and many noble defenders perished that day. The Dragon Guard tried to defend Wang, but the Hung Warlord was too powerful, and he was taken prisoner, along with several Cathayan defenders. By the time reinforcements arrived, the Hung had left with their valuable cargo.

Later that day
The Cathayan emmisaries came before the council of Samurai Lords, in charge of the Dawn Killing Fields.

"General Wang has been seized by a Hung tribe. We no longer have the manpower to retrieve him and to defend the wall at the same time. Go out into the Chaos Wastes, bring back our general, and you will be richly rewarded."

After deliberating, the council decided to despatch the young Masumune, on the promise of a promotion should he successfully accomplish the mission. He gathered an army of mounted knights, knowing that they could never catch the tribe on foot.

TBC

Masumune

Wood Elf Highborn
Daith's Reaper
Helm of the Hunt
Stone of Crystal Mere
Light armour
Shield
Steed

Rob the guru

Zhao Yun, One of the Great Five Tiger Generals
Dark Elf Assassin

From the far away land of Cathay comes Zhao Yun, a warrior of honour and courage not known in the western world. His feats of vast glory unheard of by anyone from the Empire to Lustria. Yet his presense alone gives off the sense of great determination and heart.

Never willing to give up until either he or his opponant inflict the final blow, Zhao Yun fights on till one persons head is rolling along the floor. He wears a highly ornate light armour, choosing mobility over defense, while he wields a spear which size is unlike anything a non-Cathayan would have ever seen.

Items

Dragon Spike Spear: (Touch of Death, Additional Hand Weapon)
Ornate Armour: (Dance of Doom])
Unparalleled Agility: (Rune of Khaine, Hand of Khaine)

xanaq

Gharzarc (Black Orc Warboss)
Heavy Armour, Boar,
Martog`s Best Basha,
Warboss Umm`s Best Boss `At,
Bigged`s Kickin` Boots.

Gharzarc is a very old, tough, fersome looking Black Ork. He has wandered the world looking for enimies worthy to fight. He has fought many different races and thier champions, led many an amry of orcs and goblins, but always the other greenskins let him down, either running away or dying too easily while not killing enough enemy. Now roams the land alone, excepting his faithfull boar, having given up on trying to find an army worth leading he now looks for increasingly tougher opponents.

ArtificiallyEnhanced

Snazzgit the Acquirer

Night Goblin Warboss
Hand weapon;
Martog's Best Basha;
Armour of Gork;
Warboss Imbad's Iron Gnashas;
Amulet Of Protectyness;
Giant Wolf.

Snazzgit pulled Blombo up short.

"Wat's dis?" he demanded. "Tell me an' I might let yer goez."

"Its for the Winter Arena," the hapless noble stammered. There's a search out to find the greatest warriors in all the Old World. It's being staged in *Tilea?* in a week."

"Der greatest, ey?" pondered Snazzgit, an evil idea gleaming in his good eye. "Youse just get yerself back dere an' let 'em know thems gunna be in fer a kickin'."

"Y..Yes sir!" The frightened man turned tail and ran.

"Faster!" screamed the wandering night goblin, spurring Blombo into action. "Faster, before summink bad happens ter ya!" He put in an extra turn of speed, but the great squig had blood in his nostrils and was not one to be denied a snack, especially one brought up on such fine meats and wines as this one had. As the squig's jaws closed around the man's torso Snazzgit heard the ribs all pop in crescendo with the man's spine. He let out a grim smile as he clung on to the frenzied fungus beast.

While his mount feasted, Snazzgit surveyed his options. The hunting party had been large, yet he had still dispatched them with impugnity. This new sword he'd 'found' seemed light in his hands, yet had a punch like Mork (or possibly Gork). "Let's go fer it," he announced, to no-one in particular. "Come on, Blombo, we're goin' ter Tilea!"

Atilla Jr.

Saro Kuyl

Saro Kuyl was wearing bunny ears, a bikini and not much else. She looked at the sculpture, pursed her lips, held the pose for about five seconds, then started looking to the left and grinning.

The sculptor sighed. “It’s not magic. You have to hold your poses for more than five seconds. It takes days to sculpt these sculptings for PlayElf.”

Saro shrugged. “I’m not the Buddha,” she muttered, and put up three fingers in the ‘whatever’ sign.

Sariour Kuyl marched through the doors and placed his hands on Saros’ shoulders. “Good news!” he rumbled. “Todays’ the day you become a woman!”

“I thought I was, like, already a woman,” said Saro, checking anyway. Her father, showing remarkable restraint obtained only by putting up with this for the best part of a century, ignored her.

“No, precious. Today’s the day you join the army!”

Saro slackened her jaw even further. “’m not goin’.”

“Oh yes you are, young elf,” said her father, and grabbed one of her ears so hard it came off. Saro screamed, and it took her a moment to realise it was her bunny ears. “My bad,” she said as her father dragged her out the door. “Where are we going again?”

DE Master
Attractive Elf: People will do anything for her, even harm themselves. (Counts as: Black Amulet)
Snuggles McMuffin: Snuggles is Saros’ best (and only real) friend. She poses with it for her sculptings. Sadly, the animal is tame and of no use whatsoever for war. (Counts as: Cold one)
Heavy Armour: Actually, Saro refuses to cover up as she deems armour ‘unfashionable’, but my character is worse without it. (Counts as: Heavy armour)
Happy Horse: Saros’ previous pet was annoyingly affectionate and Sariour had it shot. Then he skinned it and gave it as a present to his daughter. She threw up. (Counts as: Shield)
Leather Jacket: A fashionable cloak that Saro loves to wear. It is thick and when she falls over-which frequenty happens for no good reason-her torso seems fine. (Counts as: Sea Dragon Cloak)
Pole: Let’s not go into details. She is gifted in its’ use. (Counts as: Deathpiercer)


MPDscott

Francois de Montagne
Grail Vow; Barding; Hand Weapon
Warhorse
Sword of Heroes
Armor of Agilulf
Virtue of Audacity

Francois de Montagne (Frank the Mountain), is a massive man. It's a surprise they could find a horse big enough to carry him into battle. His size isn't a hindrance however, he is still one of the finest swordsmen in the realm; he just hits a lot harder than his peers. In his quest to find a truely worthy opponent (and the Grail), Francois has battled some of the most dangerous beasts roaming Brettonia. Though blessed by the Lady, he still seeks an opponent to challenge his prowess.

Alzer

Cors el Revenir

Wight King
-Barded Skeletal Steed
-Nightshroud
- Sword of kings
- Crown of the damned
- The Cursed book
Total: 195

A cold wind tore through the night. Cors only knew there was wind because the twisted branches swayed, and only knew it was cold by the ice scrapping under the hooves of his mount. Such bothers as winter were far behind the knight, however. All that mattered was the bold keep ahead, lit by the moon, for torches would not stay in such bluster.
A screeching whinny emitted from Cors’ cadaverous mount as he lifted his battle-scarred sword from its scabbard and charged.
Dark frozen mist flowed from the knight on his galloping steed, breaking a white streak across the dark valley. All that echoed through the knight’s head was a resounding bellow of anger. The souls of his comrades deserved to be laid to rest. Bulwarks loomed over the skeletal Sir Revenir. No mortal walls could hold the Lord’s furry though; he flew straight through them to take vengeance for his men.
Pikemen and archers did nothing to slow the enraged specter. Porcelain hooves shattered stairs as ghastly hands reached from the ground to drag hapless soldiers down to hell. Lifeblight, the blackened sword of Cors, reaped down mortal foes on his way to the center of the keep. Finally though, Cors found the usurper of his lands, the man who cursed him to eternal unrest.

Tuxedo clank

Black Orc Warboss - 245Pts
Basha’s Bloodaxe
Spiteful Shield
Amulet of Protectyness

Bogrod is large, even for a black Orc, and his bloodlust and love of a fight is unrivalled. He has gone through the ranks of an Orc tribe through savagery and strength. He has fought with a personal bodyguard of plain Orcs, having never trusted anything as big as him. He has wielded more different weapons, plundered as always, and gone through many different combinations of armour.

He had at one point rode a gigantic mechanical boar and wielded a shield that glowed with malicious red magic and large axe, which would murder enemies even without need for a bearer, whilst wearing a glinting green talisman. His second incarnation of weapons and armour again saw him atop his mechanical boar but this time he held a blue shimmering shield in one hand and his same brutal axe. This time he had a thick effigy of the god Mork hung around his neck.

In his most recent equipment stage Bogrod wields his axe as large as a man. This axe is imbued with the power of the WAAAGH!!! imbued into it by the shamans in his tribe. This time he wears a new amulet with a glowing green gemstone that allows Bogrod to withstand blows from the enemy as though he wore their armour. He holds his faithful red shield which he has now adopted over the blue one which is now in the hands of Bogrods' lieutenant.

After being killed in an arena of death, where Bogrod was aiming to make himself look like a god, he was brought to the sands of Khemri by a golden door without a doorknob but a golden scarab imprinted on it. This door lead him to a golden throne room. This room was empty but for an age old skeleton sitting in a large chair slung in golden armour.
After attempting to charge the Tomb King and failing, Bogrod fell under the command of Phas-thra who quenched the Orcs' love for battle against an endless tide of skeletons that would constantly return to their bodies when killed. Bogrod now serves his master because if the Tomb King dies, so does he and the endless supply of punching bags.

Recently his obedience has been tested when a Dwarf joined Phas-thras' bodyguard. The two now have a grudge and a rivalry to be the Tomb Kings' favourite.

Andre

Boris "cold fists" Drebrenin
Empire Templar Grand Master
Full plate armour
Barded warhorse
Mace of Helstrum
Holy Relic

Boris had led his sect of the gryphon legion for most of his life. He did however, lack patience. As he grew older this became pronounced. No longer would he attempt to ride down the champions of chaos with his lance. Instead, in his rage and contempt for their stupidity and cheek for entering his lands he wound dismount and throttle the scum. His total disdain for chaos, his motive for denying his foes a warriors death at the hands of a weapon.
As choas raids continued, his rage built, realising he could never stop the raids. His only counter was to make death as unpleasant for them as possible. So he throttled everyone and everything they sent against him, champions, ogres, trolls and even a giant. He was named cold fists and became synomymous with fear and respect in the lands north of kislev.
Soon he left his society behind, living alone in the wilderness. Thus he became incredibly resiliant an it was claimed unkillable.

Brave Sir Robin


Brave Sir Robin
virtue of audacity, Lance of Artois., Gromril Great Helm.
Barded Bretonnian warhorse, Grail vow and Shield .

After Being Publicly discrased by the King, after Fleeing from an army of Dark Elves, 'brave' Sir Robin was exciled from the country. After becoming a Questing knight as a means to prove himself, Sir Robin was contacted by the Fay Enchantress herself and was bid by her to make an army and travel to Araby, to Reclaim it from the dark forces.
Only accompanied by a select few of his minstrels (he couldn't get them to leave him alone) and otherwise travelling alone, destroying legions of Orcs, Vampires and the hated dark elves who so discrased him, he was at last given a vision by the lady and drank from the holy grail. Now he wishes to prove that though he was once cowardly he is now a grail knight of Bretonnia and wishes to fight for the Lady's honour. He now travels from contest to contes, proving the lady is nobler than all.

Lore Colten

Following a life of luxury in the Empire, Jhoira got sick of the lack of thrill. So, one day, she ran away from her mansion. Her parents where scared and thought she had been captured, and sent out waves of search parties. She sought refuge in the distant Athel-Loren. The Elves heard her pleas and helped her escape her pursuers (Mind you, slaughtered them). She was taught the way of the sword, and given longevity of life from the Elves. She has emerged, 400 Years later, to enter the famed: Arena of Death.

Jhoira of the Ghitu
(Counts as Dreadlord)
(Counts as Heartseeker) Jhoira is a master Swordsman, and has slaughtered many a foolish man.
(Counts as Sea Dragon Cloak, Armour of Eternal Servitude and Shield) Upon her departure, the Elves gifted her with this magnificent arnor (For fluff reasons, its a suit of Light armor, Bound with leather and heavy magic. She has a cloak of leaves that are almost as hard as rock)
(Counts as Potion of Strength) A clear Potion in a flask of pure gold, this elixir almost doubles Jhoira's Strength




behold the arena contestants! note the strangly simmilar builds and the grim quests of the warriors at hand! lets see how they shall preform in Mode's Arena

[daelrog]

Interesting cast for this one. Never see so many orcs before.

I think I may be outclassed for this one unless... Nurgle ca grant me a dice roll of 11 or 12 on the Eye of the Gods table, giving me a much needed ward. 1/12 chance!