[chance of death: moderate]

[2000]

The miasmatic air of the bog hung thick in the air, giving the environment a ghastly purple hue in the nighttime setting. Reishi pits belched violently as bubbles popped and in turn released more low-hanging fumes in the likeness of fog about the place as M'ors stepped over gnarling roots and through twisted branches. The adjucha was not too familiar with his surroundings, but even though the reishi swamp was toxic, it still provided a means of cover for the beasts immune to its toxicity, making the thick fumes and eerie expanse the ideal cover and location for surprise attacks. He came here after his run-in with that arrancar, drawn here by its haphazard allure... as if by some subliminal calling.

---

[2001]

Several months had since passed from M'ors' initial introduction to the hazardous bog-lands, the turn of the year having already taken its course by the time he had gotten familiar with the general confines of the area. Within those several months, all he did was grow accustom to his new niche: he quickly learned his environment from constant prowling, he was a predator and required that skill firstly; and as a latter result, he learned of feeding grounds and where to find hollow of all animal assortments, mainly land dwelling mammals, as they were easier to find and track within the winding bog..




An agonized howl of a wounded hollow tore through the swamps—M'ors ripped flesh from bone as he ravenously dug into a warthog adjucha's hide. Many beasts would have been shaken by such a disheartening cry and have fled to their nests or dens, others, either by a disposition of inquiry, foolishness or opposition would have sought the exact location of the hysteric cries. But the echoing lengths of the marshland was deceptive, for many a hollow fell victim to not a predator, yet contrarily to nature's own malignant devices as they sought out such a feasting.

The scurrying rustle of wilderness silenced as M'ors lifted his head from his meal, surveying his surroundings with keen and cold eyes. His leer was quickly subdued by that horrible grumble in his gullet, the course of his gruesomeness redirected to the delectable meal at his feet. 

The lion flexed pridefully as he waxed after his meal, he, within a few months time, had taken claim of the miasmic marshes with his animal cunning. Such a prideful king of what he considered his miasmic jungle had not much more to do than search for foes strong as he; lest he not find one, the lesser adjuchas would be perfect martyrs of his malevolent tyranny.




A shrill cry cracked the silence in the distance as the leonine adjucha bulked himself, his ethos waxing over passive and active tendencies--

--a challenger appears!

This was, after all, survival of the fittest.

There was nothing luminous about this area of the Wastelands at all, it was like when the darkened coldness of night fell on the area, all light provided from the moon was rejected into a dimmed setting. The faint glow of the moon gave coloration to purple hues, and it outlined silhouette figures from a distance. The safety level in such a setting was drastically low for Hollow of the lighter variety. Patrolling these grounds in the haze of an overshadowing fume of purple were the nastiest of nasty. Not necessarily the strongest, or even wickedest, but the gruesome, and the scary. For all these reason and more, it was a rare occasion that Arnold traveled these parts at night. But it was on this specific night that his care level was more or less tilting downward toward the not giving a fuck section. The enigmatic flow of the unfamiliar environment warped Arnold's conscious mind, in a sense he felt confused, scared -- terrified -- in another sense, he felt alive, full of adrenaline, and on edge with every one of his five sense working at maximum overdrive. Either one of these judgments could have been made about this man as he treks aimlessly amongst the marshes.

In the wake of M'ors' feast are a pair of eyes beset upon him. In a fixated lunacy, sheathed heavily at a distance within the bounds of darkness, are these eyes. Though most likely not being able to be made, they are most definitely looming about the area. While examining M'ors and his animalstic tendencies, he is given sight to an explosion of a roar. Almost unconsciously is he drawn out by the call, Arnold takes a few more steps forward.

Could he be seen yet?


Was he this challenger?

Kings did enjoy the luxury of their kingdom: one being sentinel adjuchas lesser than he who watched for random intruders--and that would be the reasoning behind that shrill warning cry; a sackcloth coloured adjucha crow circled the miasma palace, its red glaring eyes able to catch movements and figures from below in total darkness.

The lion growled deeply toward the general direction in which the wanderer lay, his growl bloomed into a ferocious roar as his body bulked further. He was on two legs now. He had a challenger: be it worthy, curious or foolish enough to not flee to its abode; afterall, a king did have to prove his worth to his subjects, and what better time than this?

Surely, this moment had to be why he was subliminally lured to the miasmic jungle.

As Arnold's figure was a mere outlined form of his structure, the same sort of appearance was seen through Arnold's own eyes looking back at M'ors. Given many numerous clues and details, Arnold was currently under the assumption that this adjuchas is of the felid family. And with the brutally savage nature of a Hollow mixed with the territorial dominance of the animal kingdom's apex predator, this was not a choice situation at all. In the midst of sizing the situation, a loud, almost alarm-like, crowing begins to originate from upwards in the cloudy night sky. It was an eerie feeling, to have the crow emit such a squawk right before he was to make a full-fledged appearance from the makeshift abode of darkness. So in caution, after the groundskeeper's warning, Arnold unsheathes his sword and almost in complete unison with the sound of metal being slipped from it's binds, a threatening roar booms forth from the shadowy figure ahead of his current position. As a particularly large plume of purplish fumes adumbrates his figure into a brief security blanket he takes his momentary cover to begin taking steady steps backwards as to accommodate M'ors' personal space. Arnold grips the bind of his sword in hand, prepped to deliver slash at a moment's notice. In his exit, he contemplates a distraction of some sort that would give aid in throwing the lion from his tail should it begin pursuit.

[exit]

Thread ended and locked as no one else has joined, points awarded as follows:
M'ors - 1 (2/2 on account of inactivity (points halved) and double posting (post treated as one))
Arnold - 2