Main Event Winner!

Hall Of Fame!

Survival - 11 Wins!

Brutal - 1 Fatalities

AFFILIATION

Alignment: Villain

Team: The Fallen

VITAL STATS

Strength: Weak

Agility: Supreme

Mind: Standard

Body: Standard

RECORD

Personal Wins: 11

Personal Losses: 3

MediaMan

Years ago. The Council of Iolis had no gyms in their facilities. Corte Con Claire had to make due with a vacant dance studio. In the middle of the room stood one padded test dummy. Across from it, at the far side of the room, stood Corte. In his hands stood a pair of swords, simple metal. He charged. Snicker, snack, sparks flew and the sound of metal on metal filled the room as the flimsy padding on the dummy was ripped to shreds. The image of such a young boy skillfully executing such complicated sword maneuvers would give virtually anyone a pause for thought. Everyone except the other Iolans. They didn't understand. They didn't appreciate. They didn't care! A sword sliced through the air and clean through the neck of the dummy before the second stabbed forward into the chest, the point coming out the other end. The plastic head rolled across the floor. Corte caught his breath and listened to his heart beating. Above he heard the chants of Latin and other dead languages useful for evoking magical spells. He'd always been different. He'd always been misunderstood. He remembered the snide whispers behind his back. "What's he doing here?" Corte lashed out at the dummy, severing both arms at once faster than a hummingbird beats its wings. Before they could hit the ground, he sliced the arms in half. It didn't matter, though. He would show them all. He would be the greatest spellsword ever entered into the ledger of the Council of Iolis. He would show everyone and everyone would, for once in their damned life take notice. Everyone like Devyn Soyokaze. The twin swords stabbed into the kneecaps of the dummy and twisted. The rat bastard, always hanging around the Mystran chantry. The girls, how they swooned. The guys, how they admired him. Graceful, polite, respectful and clean. He was an aristocrat, perhaps THE aristocrat. When Corte thought of him, his cheeks burned and his grip around the handles of his swords tightened. He wanted to think that Devyn was a bad person, that he was just a scared little boy hiding underneath a cold, collected exterior. Unfortunately, that description fit him better than Devyn. No, he hated to ackowledge the truth. He hated to ackowledge that he wanted to BE Devyn. A scream echoed through the room as the swords criss-crossed themselves across the dummy's chest. It then burst into flames. Corte cross his now burning swords before sheathing them, his breathing hard, his sweat dripping. That he was magical there was no doubt, else why would he even be in the Council of Iolis? He would give it all up if only he wanted to. He looked at his swords. They set him apart from the others, yes. But it also made him unique. He couldn't begin to stop his swordsmanship. He practiced and trained and studied hard. Years passed. A man in a brown cloak and a blank stare faces down six demons with jet black swords of some unknown metal. They all charge at once. They are big, yes. And strong. Some are very quick as well. An untrained observer would simply see, within one blink of one's eyes, a pile of severed heads and arms. The acrid stench of acid melds with the cold chill of ice. The man in the brown cloak stands over the pile, expressionless. But back up and slow down. Observe from a slower perspective. The brown cloaked man deftly severs both arms of the first demon only to stab right through the chest of another directly behind him without even looking. The third slices forward only to be parried. You see the sword dissolve first and the demon next as you would feel the tinge of magic in the air. It intensifies as the man's swords strike the forth demon and he shatters into ice. The fifth tries to run away only to have his head impaled with a vicious downthrust. The man dissapiered and then reappeared directly above him. HE then turns around and charges the fifth demon. The hellspawn prepares to block but then is surprised when the man vanishes. He senses something behind hi and blocks just in time to avoid quick death. But the man vanishes again. He reappears at his side. The demon blocks again, the man vanishes again, each time reappearching at another angle. A clean severed head eventually ends that. The man wipes his swords on his cloak and sheaths them. It looks like Corte has grown up into quite a killer. Quite an Iolan killer. Years of training under the care of the Council have drained away his passion, his emotions, his hurt and pain. When they made him the offer to be important, to be appreciated, he lept at the chance. Now he sublimates all joy in his killing, for his killing truly is ana rt. It expresses a very wide range of emotions to the well trained eye. There was only one emotion that the Council could not quell. Hatred. Specifically, his hatred for Devyn Soyokaze. At first they did their best to suppress it. It was then realized, though, that such a thing could easily be used to their advantage. It was channeled into constructive ends, made useful. And now Corte will unleash that hatred full blown. For now, he comes for the Dark Dancer, Devyn Soyokaze.

Position three to position eight. Parry, stab, slice left, slice right, counter-strike, kick, teleport left. Now, while he is distracted, slice right. A clean kill. It's good day for me. This is what fills my mind now. None of that messy self loathing, none of that inconvenient stress. No. Someone behind me. Teleport behind, stab upward. Another clean kill. To the side. Stab right. Too much blood for my liking. Not a clean kill. Too bad. That distraction cost me the beautfy of the perfect kill. I'd be angry, if I could be angry. Instead, I up my power a notch. I no longer feel such weak emotions like anger. I can express them well enough. Stab, doublesword, downward, twist 180, remove. People can see this corpse and say "His killer was very angry when he did that." I don't feel this anger. I don't even remember what it was like. Duck, stab kneecaps. Kick face. Twist neck. He looks sort of like Devyn. Huh. Eviscerate, liquify, brain and bash. Oh my. Did I do that? There's not a terrible lot left of that man. Pity.

The Art of the Sword Mage

     Spellcraft: Superior

Stab one, two and freeze. Slice right, stab upwards and burn. I survey my work. One lies a frozen statue and the other is a greasy pile of ashes. I turn around and stab forward. A fast acting poison takes him out of commission. He still crawls towards me. Don't they know when to quit? My sword extends into a snake's head and devours the man's own until only a bloody stummp remains. The blade turns a strange shade of red for a split second. Of course, it's not the blades that do all this. It's me. I am a mage. What's more, I am the best kind. One that doesn't get bogged down in endless spells and research. I am a mage of action.

Before You Know It...

     Super Speed: Ultimate

The drain takes care of most of the mess, but a good portion still remains. It will take a while for it all to wash down into the sewers. There had better be rain soon or else it will start to smell. My boots splash in the red, slushy gore that used to be a man before my swords met him. Not even bones remain. I walk on, not allowing myself the luxury of a kill well done. The next guard sees the mess and reaches for his sword. Unfortunately, doing so without arms is impossible. He has no more arms. They are on the floor. Before a scream can escape form his mouth, there is a sword in his throat. Before he can twitch, there is a head on the floor. Before he falls, I have moved on.

Shear Space, Rend Flesh

     Teleportation: Standard

He's big. He's strong. He's slow. He swings left and I am right. I slash his right hamstring. He does not fall, Impressive. He swings his fist right and I am left. I slash his other hamstring. He howls and falls to his knees. Suddenly, I am above him and two swords poke into his back. He reaches up to grab me and I am now in front of him, blinding him, the swords that were in his back now in his eyes. He stumbles backwards and now I stand atop his chest. He makes one last feeble attempt, reaching his hands up to grab me. I am now across the room. With a devil's strength, he rises and charges for one last battle cry. I am now above him and falling down. I plant a sword directly into the top of his head. I do a few dissection experiments before moving on.

Ultimate Elusiveness

     Super Speed: Supreme

The next golum isn't particularly difficult either, this one made of stone. Marginally faster, marginally stronger. Before he can take his first swing, he is scoured by hundreds of tiny slashes acorss his face, chest, arms, legs, and back. I make a tiny knick, move on, make another tiny knick, move on and repeat over and over and over again. The golum howls, it cannot catch me. It is as if I did not even need to cross the intervening spaces to move somewhere. I did not. most idiot mages use this sort of spell to get away. The close combat potential is lost to them. When applied with sufficient speed, it is enough to dispatch even the mightest of golums in a matter of seconds. Stone dust floods the floor.

Mastery of Double Sword Style

     Sword Master: Ultimate

• Weakness: Power in Item - Hard to Lose

"There's no way you're going to make it out of here alive you know." I looked to my left. I looked to my right. Men in armor, all around me. Some with swords. Some with maces. "You've been a thorn in our side for too long." The first man is eight feet to my right. The one with the crossbow, probably the most dangerous. Take him out first. At this point, the two men with the longswords will probably approach. I play the fight quickly in my head. "Your magic is useless here. It's a dead zone. No flaming swords. No vanishing." Position three is probably the best for that situation. It will kill the first man with the longsword, stun the second. Turn around quickly and stab him with the sword in my right hand. "You're going to die here, Corte. Here, in this muddy, dark and cold place. Here! Now! It ends!" The leader has a double handed broadsword. Probably know how to use it. I won't bother to parry - the sword is too big. If he swings low, knock it up and then strike the side. If he makes an overhead swing, knock it to the right, strike to the left. He won't try a stabbing motion with a sword this big. I drew my swords. "Are you ready, Corte Con Claire?" When you are.