Just a quick Battle

[Hip-Hop]

I now have an improved form of BeLac and want to test him in a quick battle. No judges needed, intermidiate people please.

Rules
1.NO God-Modding
2. NO Power Playing
3. This is Power Charcter, not melee

My Temp.

Name: BeLac Sheelo
Title: Son of the Morning/Seeker of Dark Light
Age: Technically he’s dead, but when he dies he was 118
Gender: Male
Homeworld: Earth/Avalon
Species: Earthling/Angel

Armaments: BeLac is equipped with two swords. First is his trusty sword Blasphemy, a momento of his former master. Blasphemy is sheathed on his back and is a very wide blade. It has sharp jagged edges, and looks like a sword the barbarians would use. Second is the sword of the angel Michael, given to him by the angelic entity himself when BeLac left heaven. The polar opposite of Blasphemy, Michael’s sword is a straight blade. It shines fabulously white when unsheathed. Its white shine is there even in total darkness, allowing it to be used as a lantern of sorts. Strung at his waist is the horn of the angels, with one blow of it BeLac can summon the angels Michael and Gabriel to fight alongside him for a period of time. In Life BeLachad extensive magical abilities, and retained those after he died. BeLac can also quickly created a clone of himself wherever he chooses, and can swap places with it.

Appearance: BeLac is a tan man, the color of his skin like that of a Hawaiian. He stands at 5’11 ½” and has not a muscular build, but a well toned body (think a professional soccer player). He weighs approximately 175 lbs. But about 80% percent of that is pure muscle. He has normal sized Ivory eyes with a trace of black in them. His hair is black, coming to his shoulders.

As far as his clothes go, he is very stylish. He wears a royal blue trench coat (untied) that reaches down to his mid shin, complete with a matching fedora with a white strip about 2 inches in width just above the brim. Hs black hair is visible, poking out of the bottom of his hat. Beneath the trench coat he wears a white collared shirt (tucked in) with a black tie, he is wearing royal blue suit pants and shiny black dress shoes with a square tip. Two giant white angel wings come out of to hole in the back of his jacket. His entire wingspan is about 7 ½ feet.


Personality: BeLac is a calm character. Never one to lose his cool, BeLac takes life easy. Back when earth was still a place, he often liked to watch old timey movies (somewhat explaning his style of dress). In life he was a bit of a show off at times, now that he is an angel he is rather humble. He is a sarcastic person, always having a smart remark ready as a come back. The rest is somewhat of a mystery, he rarely let’s people know what his true intentions are.

Bio: The year is S.D. 801, the planet earth. For years the galactic federation has had a top-secret project in works, and finally their objective has been achieved. In a lab deep within the crust of the little blue planet, the galaxies top scientists have created a serum. The called it “The Fountain of Youth Project.” Using advanced neuroscience they have created a virus that will holt the body’s aging process at a certain age, approximately 26. With this serum, they realized that they could send whole crews of soldier to planets far beyond where they could go with hyperspace. It could revolutionize not only space travel but also life itself for the whole galaxy. But first they must test it, and that is where the story of BeLac Sheelo Begins.

A young child runs through a long hall, towards a man with his arms outstretched. The child is a girl, bearing the same name as her mother, Mary. The man, obviously her father, picks up the babe in a joyous embrace. From a door at the other end of the hall comes a nurse, with a baby wrapped in a blue cloth. She approaches the man, who puts down the girl and picks up the baby, staring lovingly into his black eyes. “Who’s that?” says the girl a little confused.
“This is your little brother,” says they man in a loving voice, “BeLac.” The girl stands on her toes and stares at the baby, in awe of her brother. Then, as if by some cruel twist of fate, a man dressed in a federation uniform comes and confiscates the baby, walking out of the hallway through a door at the opposite end the nurse came from. “Goodbye BeLac,” says the man sorrowfully as watched his only son carried out the door towards a waiting transport ship.

The once peaceful baby screams as a long needle is injected into his mid forehead. “Great,” said a man who was obviously a scientist, “His body is not rejecting the super soldier serum. Now for the Fountain of Youth.” With that he once again walked over to the baby and injected a needle. “Is the ship ready?” said the man to a waiting soldier.
“YES SIR!” said the soldier, standing at attention. The scientist the n picked up the baby and placed him inside a small dome. “You shall be the first, and you shall make all of our lives better.” Spoke the scientist to the babe. The dome then retracted into a large spacecraft, and took off towards the stars. “All for the sake of science.” Said the man as he walks back into the lab, taking one last look at the spacecraft before heading through the large steel door.

The large spaceship traveled through the great sea of blackness, stars passing by it as it sped on. Inside the craft was naught but a lonely child, and lonely he would be until his destination was reached. The spaceship had all the necessary needs of survival, it had food, entertainment, water, and as the boy grew he became accustom to how his life would be. One part of the ship fascinated him more than all the others. It was a picture, a picture of a man, a woman, and a young girl. The computer had informed BeLac that these people were what were called his family. Their names were John, Mary, and Mary.

As the ship passed farther through the endless void of space, when it finally came into view of a large green planet. The ship started to travel faster towards the planet, bursting through the atmosphere in a huge ball of fire. It crashed into the plant in what seemed to be a bog. BeLac crawled out from what was the only home he had known for 12 long years. A cold chill came over his body, he was not used to non room temperature air, but thanks to the super soldier serum coursing through his veins his body did not go into shock. H went out to explore the muddy paradise, riddled with giant roots of trees and strange green substances. For hours he walked, farther and farther into the bog, until he came upon a small hut.

Inside the hut was a small, dog like creature. He looked like a dog yet he stood on two legs like a man. He had blue fur and large green eyes, and as BeLac wandered in his ears perked up. He introduce him self to the boy as The Wise One, sole inhibitor of the planet Avalon. He spoke to the boy and told him that he only held the knowledge of the universe (not Omniverse). At first he told the boy that since he was the first person to travel far enough to find him in over a millennia, he entrust all his knowledge to him. Thus the training began, and train vigorously they did.

For years The Wise One taught the boy, teaching him not only techniques to be used in battle but also the wisdom of a being twenty times his own age. Once, when The Wise One first saw the boy use his incredible strength he told him to punch the ground as hard as he possibly could. The boy readied himself and struck the ground with so much force he left a ole the size of the doors to cathedral where he’d punched it. From then on The Wise One told him to limit his use of brute strength, and to focus on using his magic for normal everyday acts. Over the years he became extremely skilled with his magic, once nearly moving the entire planet. One day The Wise One told him that he must go out and explore the galaxy of which he had learned for himself. On the eve of his departure, BeLac went to his ship and retrieved the only momento he had of his “family.” It was a blue and white outfit and two dual lazer handguns. For the outfit he made it extremely magic resistant, it was as good as any armor in the galaxy, and for the guns he gave the ability to use magic at his command. The Wise One had one last gift for his beloved student, a great sword called Blasphemy. He told BeLac that regardless of his training he could only use the weapons ability, and it would take sometime for him to learn to used the sword in a combat situation.

With guns in hand and sword in sheath he departed from his old master, surely never to see him again. A tear came on his face as he flew from the only actual planet he had ever known. He flew on for weeks, his magic powering up the ships engine to speed up the process of returning to his home. Upon arrival at the coordinates in his nav. Computer looked out of the windshield and saw… nothing. The planet had been completely obliterated by some unknown force. Rage over came BeLac, and he then and there decided to find the perpetrators of this heinous crime. He knew that chances of his success were low but he was determined. He now roams the omniverse, searching for the race that destroyed the home he never knew.

BeLac traveled the omniverse, in search of the killers. He teleported from planet to planet, making a name for himself everywhere he went. You see, he not only looked but he helped those in need that he saw. He defeated countless fearsome beast as he traveled, having entire planets praise his name. By the time 90 years had past BeLac was a universal legend. Still, even after 90 years of searching, BeLac had not found the perpetrators. And so BeLac subjected himself to a deep sleep on the planet Jodoria, to allow himself the peace he needed since he could not die. While on Jordoria a beautiful maiden discovered his sleeping body and desired him so. This maiden’s name was Elaina, and every day after she found his body she went back to gaze upon his beauty. One day she decided she would do what she had longed to do for so long. In the dead of night Elaina traveled to the place where BeLac slept and fulfilled her fantasy. Several months pasted and Elaina bore a child, a boy named Joshua. BeLac eventually awoke from his slumber, and left the planet when he did. While in slumber, BeLac had decided that his quest was foolish. So he teleported himself into the Jordorian sun killing himself in the process. When the maiden returned with her son to show the boy his father, they found that the sleeping warrior was gone. Depressed that her child was now a bastard, Elaina went into town and killed herfself. Right before she thrust the knife into her stomach she told Joshua that when he became of age he must go and find his father, and let him know that he has a son. And with that Elaina died, leaving the boy all alone…

Meanwhile, Belac had died as well. But when BeLac died he went to heaven and lived with the angels. Because of his valiant deeds in life God decided to grant him the position of “Son of the Morning,” the spot left open when Lucifer was kicked out. BeLac enjoyed this life for a while, conversing with his fellow angels and living in heaven. But soon BeLac realized that this was all he would be for eternity. When he looked from his heavenly palace he could see the gates of hell, often BeLac wondered about hell and the power it held. And so one day him and two other angels, Gabriel and Michael, conspired in secret. BeLac told them that he planned to leave heaven in search of a greater power. Although angels, Michael and Gabriel loved BeLac so he was like a brother to them, so they made up their minds to help him. Michael offered BeLac his sword, embued with the power of heaven. Gabriel offered him an ivory horn, with one blow on it his two companions would come to fight by his side. Along with his own angelic power, BeLac now possessed enough power to do the impossible. So BeLac set off to find power, and to roam the omniverse once again.

BeLac searched for years, returning to old planets he had visited asking them about the power he sought after. He longed for it so, and everyday he strengthened his resolve to find it. One day, while speaking with an old mage friend of his, the mage told him of the power of the Dark Light. He said that the power was great, and that it was conceived in hell. He also told BeLac that the Dark light had already obtained its wielder, a man named Makyu. BeLac did not care about this Makyu, he would find this power and take it. At first he planned to simply kill the warrior, but the angel in him denied him this. Instead he sought to find this man, and then let things play out from there. Now BeLac has found Makyu, wielder of the Dark Light, and decides to travel with him until the time is right…


Theme Song: "10,000 Days"- Tool

[Desert Jesus]

I will verse you .

[Hip-Hop]

Alright then DJ, post your temp. and we'll start the festivities. Arena: Spiritual Limbo. Litteraly hanging in the balance between heaven and hell, Limbo is a sight to see. Below you are the fierce face and claws of demon at the gate of hell, and above you are the melodious sounds of angel playing stringed instruments and praising God. Limbo is endless so there will be no switching of battlefields... at first.

[Desert Jesus]

=Your Character=

--Basics--

Name: Ambrose Aracely
Nickname: The Poetic Soldier
Age: Defined as “Infinity.” Ambrose is not subject to the fundamental structures of age; instead, he is classified as “time without end.”(Explained in Biography)
Gender: Ambrose navigates the ages in a male shell; in truth, he holds a spiritual essence, a connection with the remnants of the past, allocating the spare pain, mirth, and odium within him.
Race: Ambrose has no specific race; however, he looks like a man tainted with White Magic. He is an Immortal.
Pure Race or Mix: Pure.
Allegiance: Aesthete (The Arts)
Occupation (if Applicable): Poet, Philosopher, Military Veteran of the ages.
Residence: Forest of Heroes

--Family--

Parents: Ambrose had a father, or a creator, if you will. It was known that he did not partake in marriage, and that he did not father any young ones. Unfortunately, his name was lost to legend, and therefore varies.
Siblings: None.
Married?: Once, to a beautiful lass by the name of Aurora. That era of love and passion has long since passed, though.
Children: He once had a son named Bartholomew, who had become a Knight at an early age of eighteen. His pride, quest for honor, and dangerous attitude led him to death in the Fourth Crusade; Ambrose has ever since mourned his sons death.

--Appearance Basics--

Height: 6'1"
Weight: 220
Hair Colour: Moonlight
Eyes: "Physical Appearance"
Distinguishing Features: Once again, you will find this description in "Physical Appearance."

--Physical Appearance--:

~ Appearance: Ambrose is distinct in his features in that he conveys a sense of triquetra morality; a three-leaf clover, if you will, with the stem scalded by obscurity. Ambrose has eyes pierced by a loving warmth of desolate lunacy, as they are as deep and complex as myth in its entirety, with the faint shading of blue Ankhs emanating a dim sapphire glow around his black pupils. Carved into the flesh upon his handsome face is an eloquently calculated Trefoil Knot that arcs over the bridge of his burly nose, cambers around his tight, trivial lips and heads northward to his breaching hairline, forehead untouched by the extensive strands of moonlight hairs coupled together in a substantial knot hung just above the waistline curved around his back. His bangs, half-elliptical in shape, arc fourth and prod into the indents on either side of Ambrose’s sturdy chin.

Ambrose is of a medium build, with defined yet average sized muscle tone.

~ Garments/Armor/Armaments: When subject to the moonlight, his moonlit bangs slice a moon-shaped shadow into the ground around his feet, which are sheathed by black boots, strapped up with silver buckles until thin, dark blue/black armor plates embrace both his ankles. Underneath the armor, silver shackles wrap tightly around his ankles, both connected by a lengthy, embroidered chain draped across the ground. Ambrose’s black, drawn out pants drip over the edges of the armor hugging his ankles, and as they touch upon the foundation of his knees, his pants are at once somewhat pressured by an unchanged presence of poleynes, both stitched into his pants and with half-diamond-shaped fragments of armor jutting out from the mid-section.; the poleynes connect to the cuisses, which rise up to Ambrose’s waist. Skewed to the right of the hefty, black-embroidered belt is a large buckle resembling a triskele, a celtic design with 3 spirals radiating from a common center. Across the entirety of Ambrose’s chest is a black/blue-gold chestplate with a celtic tree of life carved into the center. A solemn spaulder off to the right and vambraces on either arm shield the nearly skin-tight, black cloth that chokes his upper body, ending at the neckline. Ambrose prefers to wear his armor at most times, so as to represent himself to others (if need be) in a chivalrous, honorable fashion.

Ambrose wields three blades, each to signify a piece of the pie divided into thirds that is his mind.

~ Honor:
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_690.jpg
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_691.jpg

~Despair:
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_852.jpg
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_854.jpg

~Lunacy:
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_699.jpg
http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n...r_01/d_702.jpg

--Personality--

Ambrose is erratic, vindictive, passionate, idealistic, philosophical, chivalrous and honorable. Not by his own will has he learned to embrace these virtues, but by the will of others; through years of confrontation within himself, decades of thirst for admiration and glory, and millenniums of witnessing betrayal at a level below his own, he has become a rather…complicated individual. Through the years, Ambrose has developed three distinct personalities, as well as approaches to life. His true essence is that of an honorable, poetic warrior; a man who craves for strength in honor, and hungers for the beauty of the world, as well as its people, to present him with the perfect epic. On the other hand, Ambrose is unpredictable and powered by a maddening wrath where his thoughts become nothing more than thorny bushes, drawing blood from whomever they touch. In this state of pain, he is crazed, and his bodily functions and personality clearly displays it; also, his writing tends to be dramatic and fierce. On the third hand, Ambrose is emotional and incompatible with all but himself. In this state of mind, he is plagued with sorrow and trauma. When under this condition, he writes under anxiety, as well as searches for conflict.

Given that he has been cursed with the blessing of immortality, his life has often left him in the shadow of other individuals, empathizing. He cannot place his heart in himself, yet he is a master when it comes to understanding the feelings slumbering deep within the folks he encounters along his crossing. There are times when he is at loss with the world around him, and it is then when he is confronted by the tri-presence inside of him…

“Do you even have a heart? If you can understand pain, pleasure, and resentment…why can you not live knowing that you have a purpose, and that your existence is not a waste? Why must our hourglass contain a never-ending supply of sand?”

Ambrose had recognized the simple answer to that question the day he was conjured up… But, it’s the erudite answer behind the mask of the simpler one he has yet to discover. With any luck, he will find his remedies contained within his writings, or possibly within the hearts of the inhabitants of Illiria.

As to how he came to have a tri-personality disorder, that is explained in the bio.

--Likes/Dislikes--

These are, of course, only applicable to Ambros ein his true state, which is honor. Both his state of lunacy and despair are completely different, and do not convey who he is at "heart."

~ Likes:
- Writing. (The Arts)
- Strength, chivalrous and honorable conduct.
- Pain, strength in the state of weakness.
- Women.
- Animals, nature.
- Comraderie, hope for the future, hunger for the past.
~ Dislikes:

- Dishonorable men, the rude.
- Cowardice.
- Weakness.
- Crowds of people. He finds peace in solitude, or with few others.
- Animosity
- Ignorance.

--Skills--

Ambrose is well versed in the arts of both combat and literature. Once titled "Savior" by the peoples of the early Dark Ages, (An era long since buried in the dust that ensues Father Time) Ambrose Aracely is a man of both passion and action; that is, not only is he exceptionally skilled in swordsmanship and White Magic, but he can show compassion without letting the burdens of pride and ego weigh him down. Also, Ambrose has exceptional stamina, he is skilled in hand-to-hand combat, and can withstain excessive pain, having been submitted to it for so long.

White Magic, you say? In his case, it is the ability to bring his literature to life...literally. Only by his hands will others witness the birth of words as they have never before... Through words alone, Ambrose can create binds, fear, and phenomenon.

--Weaknesses--

Ambrose's tri-personality serves as a severe hindrance in all aspects of his life. Whether it be in the midst of war, or in the presence of pen and pad, a sudden change of heart could leave him weak in mind, spirit, ans strength. When controlled by Lunacy, Ambrose finds that only chaos comforts him... This is clearly evident on the top floor of his manor hidden in solitude. When controlled by anxiety, Ambrose is stricken with stress and is very nervous... This frail state of mind causes him to shake with uncertainty, often dealing him a lower card in battle; also, he is unable to make decisions as fast as usual. Ambrose's thought also serves as a hindrance. Seeing as how he is a philosopher unto himself, he is often at the mercy of curiosity.

~Biography:

~Origins:

At the birth of time, there existed two writers, two friends, two heroes, who were renowned for their poems and epics containing ideas and theories as to how existence had come to be, and why it was. They were great friends. Legend has it that they shared some unique bond, incapable of being broken; when one suffered, so did the other. It was their unrivaled talent in tapping into their astral plane that had won them acceptance. They were heavenly in their lexis and emotions so much so that their language was untamed by the current vocabulary, causing them to generate a superior sense of intelligence over most bodies.

For decades they traveled with one-another, recording what they had seen and experienced, disrupting wicked operations at the hand of the devils, and protecting the meek from the aggressive. Breathtaking ballads of beauty and heroism, the duality of the universe, tales of dwarves, elves, knights and others were produced under two pairs of righteous hands; they had caused such a riot amongst the people that some of their beliefs had become etched into the stone laws of many villages, guiding the villagers and townsfolk onto a virtuous path with but one destination: the second life. Aye, it was the writers who provoked the concept that one does not die, but instead lives on in an “alternate form” of oneself in some parallel cosmos. It was not long before they had been hailed superior amongst many philosophers and artists alike, immune to criticism from many parties of ardent thinkers.

However, it is a common fact that superiority does not come without its sense of malevolency, as each of them assembled a profound rivalry with one-another. Companionship soon turned to hostility as they became jealous of the others knowledge and authority over what was and what wasn’t. What was thought to be powerful bond had been knocked down by the flaw of mankind, a fundamental so blood-shot that a little piece of them had died that day. The writers waged written wars upon each other for decades afterwards; these ‘wars’ were not highly obvious, for they were waged within novels, elegies, and books concerning theoretical ideas about the Omniverse. It wouldn’t be sixty years before they’d actually speak to each other again, more or less.

Sixty years had passed since the birth of silence between them. On a fabled night, when the wind silently cried amongst the swaying trees, the two met.

“They say that if you pour your heart out onto paper, you can create life… You can create a breathing idea, a hypothetical shell with no organs, no blood…but, just…life. What is life? Is it the characteristic state of organisms? Or is it something much greater? Is it knowledge? Is it good intention?” Sighing and peering towards his feet, the man spoke once more. “What happened? The life between us swept away with the rising tide, and I can’t help feeling ashamed for succumbing to easily-explicable flaws…”

The other man did not speak; instead, a solemn, yet pitiful tear broke the horizon on his bottom eyelid. As this occurred, the man lunged at his forgiving companion, sword drawn from behind his back. But before he knew it, he had been struck down by a man fitting the description of Ambrose.

“This is Ambrose Aracely, my creation, my idyllic theory.” spoke the man who had spoken only moments before. “He is life in a nutshell, a perfect composition of how life should be led: with honor.” And with those words, he drew his sword and decapitated his enemy.

~Life:

Ambrose had been drawn out the night before, and until that fatal moment, had drifted between what was reality and what was imaginary; a grey void, if you will. Yet, he was not emptiness… Instead, he was a spiritual essence existing only in the mind of a mortal. If you are, in fact, a credible reality to one person, you must exist on some imaginary plane between what is real and what isn’t… Through mastery and deception, the writer conjured up a living, breathing being…an Ambrose, a male shell to house and confine that para-elemental plane of existence in which his essence draws life from.

Ambrose spent what was thought to be an eternity in the void, slowly collecting and piecing together his mind – at the time, he had been created in the image of what the writer had thought was perfect, and therefore was, in a sense, perfect. But after Ambrose had opened his eyes not to see emptiness, but reality, the fact that perfection was not achievable hit him like a ton of bricks. He could not explain it… It was only on instinct that he’d protect his creator, his father. But Ambrose was quick to realize that he was not perfection… After having witnessed the decapitation, he’d realized he was an abomination, a corrupt and black ideal of mankind. However, he could not manufacture any sort of rage or hatred for his father…he could only feel pity.

It was when the blood of a friend had splashed upon his neatly strapped boots that he had dismissed his allegiance to transgression.

“You can not leave me!” the writer spoke, bent by anger. “I created your sorry ass! You ARE perfection! You ARE the image of the invisible flawlessness that surrounds our societies today! Get back here!”

But Ambrose did not turn back to his warped father; instead, he merely looked back and spoke softly.

“You should pity me. You’ve created me out of self-righteous hatred, and now that I have become a permanent decoration in this meager verse, I am forced to help right the wrongs you yourself have become victim of. Please, do not lecture me on what is perfection. Perfection is a paradox: Had I been perfect, I wouldn’t have improved my ability to distinguish between good and evil, as you had so clearly displayed for me. Therefore, I lack "true perfection," which depends on progress.” The man who had created him widened his gaze. “In a matter of minutes, I have disproved your entire life’s work,” In his tone, Ambrose had substituted spite for remorse. “I am truly sorry that you have wasted your life away, it is not your fault. Caught in the void where freedom and omniscience conflicts with one-another, it is only plausible that you do this.” After saying this, Ambrose fled the scene and disappeared over the hills, fading softly into the large moon resting over those same knolls.

As fate would have it, Ambrose ended up spending his days amongst the poor, a heavy cloak worn over his normal attire so as to not fabricate questions amongst the others. There he met a young girl of the name Aurora Glade, three years in age. He became as a father to her, and the two developed a father-daughter bond simultaneously. For nearly twenty years, he served as the protector of that small mining village lost somewhere in the Astrian Mountains, safeguarding them from demons and the like, tasting the burden of the peoples so as to try and understand them, and therefore help them. But he could not… So bad, he wanted to cure mortal sicknesses with his pencil, but to no avail could he achieve that dream. Ever since he had witnessed the beheading, he had felt that he had to help mankind better their flaws, so as to not end up a blemished part of the past.

After 2 years, the village was confronted by a beast, a giant who had lost his way in the mountains. He went by the name of Oron. For days upon end, the Giant camped outside the settlement, waiting for hikers and travelers alike to pass by innocently. Reports of death began to build up, and Ambrose confronted the monster. The battle did not last more than ten minutes. The people watched form the village, gazing upon a huge silhouette atop the mountains as it fell to its knees, feet cut from the ankles. Ambrose then proceeded to cut the beast’s eye out, and threw it over the summit, hurling it into the ocean below. Oron writhed in pain. Seeing this, Ambrose quickly prodded him in the heart, killing him instantly.

Overwhelming praise came to Ambrose like a wave of passion, and what could he say, he loved every minute of it.

“I give the people hope…” he said to himself one night. He had realized that, even though he could not cure mankind in its entirety, he could nurture it. But the merriment was not long-lived.

Shortly after, the Astrian Mountains were caught in the midst of a grueling war between two rivaled nations: Galatia, the sovereign state of the sea; and Salix, the sovereign state of land. A brutal war erupted amongst the villages as the immense armies crashed into each other, the sea nation blanketing the mountains with clouds of arrows as the land nation dispatched vicious beasts to roam the lands freely. Feeling a sense of responsibility for his people, Ambrose stood his ground, single-handedly shielding the innocent from being caught in the crossfire. What was once a beauty more majestic then heaven itself became nothing more than a bloody battlefield, strewn with trenches and corpses.

“How could they do this…? Can they not see the error of their ways?” cried Ambrose, touching upon the pale face of a lifeless young girl. “Is my mission folly?”

But he could not bring himself to believe that it was. Turning cheek to the question, he continued to repel assaults upon his village, only speculating as to how much worse it was on the frontlines, what with the catapults that seemed to light the night sky ablaze. Numerous rebel armies sprouted from the chaos, and became as an obstacle to both nations. But it was not enough.

In the dead of a night unlike any other, a surprise Galatian attack leveled the village in which Ambrose slept. In the midst of the fire and chaos, Aurora was swept away in the flame, captured by the Galations in their search for leverage with the rebel forces.

Fueled by both remorse and anger, Ambrose gathered together what was left of the rebel forces and led an assault upon the Sea Capitol, a huge city drifting with the current of the ocean. The ensuing battle was monstrous – For nearly a week, the rebels continually stormed the fortress, every time getting closer to the castle, the origin of their pain. Finally, after a lengthy siege, Ambrose rescued Aurora from the clutches of Boss Nass, the sea captain. After hiding her on a nearby ship, Ambrose crept back into battle, ultimately bringing his assault to its end by slaughtering Nass in a skirmish.

The Salixans were extremely pleased with Ambrose’s actions and offered him a rank of authority amongst their defenses. He refused as if compelled by instinct. The Salixans had done their equal cutting of the bonds that tied Ambrose to the village, for it was also they who wiped out the villagers, his friends, his brothers and sisters.

But this did not sit too well with Boss Terra, the land chief. He threatened to execute him on the spot less he enlist in their ranks. With the tip of a blade tickling his neck, Ambrose looked the burly man deep in the eyes.

“I refuse to help you. Whether or not your intentions are good, your means of achieving them are poor.”

And as the last syllable was spoken, Ambrose disarmed the man with swift hands and fled the scene. Quickly boarding the ship he had hid Aurora on moments before, Ambrose escaped the flurry of arrows and sailed across the sea to Castor Cove, where he and Aurora lived out the rest of her days in peace and solitude. As soon as they got there, they married under a secret flame and built a small dwelling just outside the inlet, the beauty of the beach filling their lives with blue majesty. It was during this time that Ambrose had come to understand true passion. He clearly displayed this newfound knowledge in his writings, which concerned themselves mainly with the inspiration of love and its effect on a troubled soul.

But he could not escape the lucid, black truth that Aurora was nearing the end of her days. Her will was strong, and her heart was pure, but unable was she to triumph over time, the supreme bringer of ill-fortune. For the last years of her life, this had plagued him so, poisoning his mind, contradicting his impression upon love. But it happened. After she had passed on into the second life, Ambrose carried her into the cove ever so slowly, all the while gazing upon her beautiful, pale face, hungering for her warmth one last time. For days she laid silently upon a rock as Ambrose chiseled it away around her, carving a monumental heart pierced by three swords. On the third day, he buried her in the center; three solemn roses protruded from the ground, and then he left her for the waves.

For centuries Ambrose lived with the burden of a departed love weighing down his shoulders. But he could not let that slow him down; nay, instead of breathing in the past, he chose to push forward, and eventually had become involved in seventeen major conflicts. He became obsessed with the transience of life, as well as the dual illusion of good and evil. He had become a poetic “forever soldier,” a title given to him near the end of the dark ages for having been involved in so many conflicts.

“War, pain, misery… I seem to be a magnet of all these things.”

His many journeys during this era, which he refers to as the “dark ages” in his writings, had allowed him to form friendships in every corner of the world, both weak and strong. He met heroes and villains alike, trained young boys into fierce men, and saved hundreds of lives from evils he had only known too well. Aye, it was during these dark ages that the Legends of Ambrose were birthed. Known to armed forces as the “Immortal Soldier,” and to poets as the “Forsaken Man”… But the greatest title given to him, the label in which he will cherish until the end of his days…was “Savior.” Savior… It sung with such majesty that it could not be denied by the autumn leaves of Alderath, nor the breathing of the gentle wind upon the Black Sea as the sun creeps back into its hiding place.

Savior…

It was with three companions that Ambrose survived the dark ages and lived on into the next light. Javilyn, a thin elf with an eye as keen as an eagle and a hand as quick as a cobra; Rotor, a bulky ogre of a man with a sense of humor as crude as Hades and a blade as powerful as Cerberus; and lastly, Beddock, an average gentleman with an intelligence far beyond any Ambrose had come across. It was in the midst of battle that they had met, but stories of war, friendship and betrayal are for another time.

During the last fifty years of the dark ages, they helped each other through thick and thin, keeping each other alive as the last Great War slowly lost its fire.

Time slowly inched its way forward as the dawn of a new beginning skulked upon the doorstep. Suffering from old age, Ambrose’s friends withered away from time. However, their departures were not sad ones; they were brave men who did not cower in the shadow of death, but instead embraced it with cheerful faces. Ambrose had only witnessed a will so powerful once before…in Aurora. And so he buried them amongst a bed of flowers overlooking the sunlit city of Thenas; an earnest tear reached out at the sun that dusk, for Ambrose felt the grim, cold sting of the Reaper upon his flesh once again.

“For hundreds of thousands of years, I have seen many faces… I am tired of having to bury them in the ground.”

Those were his last words before entering the city of Thenas, the result of the last great war. Unlike others before it, Thenas was an advanced civilization overflowing with technologies Ambrose had never seen before. Monumental buildings scraped across the sky as speedy trains emerged from under the earth’s surface and lost themselves amongst the hundreds of people walking about the city. Warriors were trained in the art of gunslinging, which to Ambrose was just a cheap substitute for the bow.

A new army rose from the ashes of the old, an army led by the Monarch King, a lion of a man…literally. King was a man of honor and justice. He strived to purge prejudice and cruelty from his lands, as well as labored tirelessly to keep his city-state in order.

But he was arrogant. King thought himself a God, a deity which could withstand any force or power.

It wasn’t long after entering the city that Ambrose had bumped into Holland, son of Rotor. But that was not the only bloodline he had been graced with… Marieke Glade. She was a woman of profound beauty. The beauty did not come only from her looks, but from her blood as well. Aye, she was a relative of Aurora, his undying love. Mirth surged through Ambrose’s body as he enlisted into the Imperial Army, so as to try and get to know the nurse.

Unfortunately for him, no such thing would happen.

In the midst of its construction, the newly founded Imperial Army found itself in a grueling battle with outsiders… pirates from a nearby planet. Thenas had been too slow in its expansion to repel the attacking vagabonds, and thusly perished. It had all happened in one night – from behind the buttery clouds engine-propelled ships stormed the city guns blazing, burning the darkness away with a magnificently deadly display of fire and blood. The innocent were slaughtered and the meek were blown away; crying out in pain, Ambrose stood strong in the center of the battlefield, yelling towards the skies and asking them to reach down and take him away from all this senseless agony. In a mere moon, the cities defenses were wiped clean from existence…and Ambrose had shared in that pain.

“Is this… Is this death? This black sense of emptiness… this unrelenting wave of loneliness…it can’t be.” And then it hit him. “This is…the void.”

Yes, it was the grey void once again. For millenniums, Ambrose was forced to reminisce on his past and live in loneliness. For immense periods of time, he had found himself remembering back to his earlier days, when love was the boat that kept him buoyant as he drifted through the endless sea of despair and confusion. Thoughts of death were quick to grow in his mind, for he had begun to grow tired of living… What was his mission? For decades, centuries, it had been to alleviate the lives of those he had touched. But why? What for? He wanted to become a purpose, a champion… But, he felt he would never obtain that goal – these people, why are they so wicked? For millenniums he had watched the soul of men be torn apart and rebuilt again, just to be once more devoured by hatred… These people, they would never change.

And so was the birth of Lunac (Lunak), a beastly essence in the form of a devil with monstrous claws of shadow, piercing red eyes, and a tongue that hissed like a serpent. Appearing from the darkness that held Ambrose, he reached out his colossal hands and cupped them around the Immortal; the beast’s blood-red eyes peered through the crevices in between his fingers. It was a monster born of fire, a living embodiment of the hatred within Ambrose, an entity so vast that its hands could reach out and touch every corner of existence.

It did not speak.

Ambrose, lost in thought, merely stared-down the beast with unconscious eyes – and without warning, Ambrose grinned in unison with the beast. The fiend, opening its mouth wide, swallowed Ambrose, devouring him in a short gulp.

Ambrose’s dual personality was thusly born. Within the honor and desire to aid that slept within him, an infection began to spread. The black virus plagued his body, darkening his soul with that of the tainted fiend. It was after this incident that he had been awakened by Ukiah, the God of Dreams. From the darkness he had birthed into a new world… a majestic, forested planet that called itself Achernar; the planet was exotic, and once again Ambrose had found himself amongst people and creatures of all shapes and sizes.

“What has happened to the towering structures? I see no trains, no paved roads…”

Indeed, for little did Ambrose know that what he had “escaped” was an initial Armageddon of colossal proportions; during the time he had lost himself in the void, the peoples of the planet who survived the Armageddon were forced to live under the surface… What were once peaceful colonies of humans, elves, dwarves, half-lings and others had become nothing more than an army of savages engulfed by the hunger for food; slowly, they turned on each other, turning to meat for nourishment… Many of the sane made it their duty to escape the blood-thirsty that lurked in the shadows, and it was these who had surfaced into the sunlight and bred a new world – the others could not, for too long they had relied on darkness to blanket their now cataleptic eyes.

Leaking with remorse and regret, Ambrose lived in repentance, strained by continuous thoughts of his past love, friendships, and journey’s. The manor in which he built to house himself had become something of a marvel, matched only by his thirst for glory, which had not been spoiled; he was fully aware of the second presence that slumbered with light eyelids beneath his flesh… He could not submit the innocent to its will… What's more, Ambrose had a craving to put pen and pad together again… Long had he wished to hold Aurora in his arms, so much so that his craving became an addiction… With this on his mind, Ambrose isolated himself in a dark wood called Cedar Forest, the largest of the wood on the planet, and committed himself to learning the secrets that his father had hidden within his essence. During this time in his life, Ambrose had learned to connect with his inner spirit, thus allowing him to read through the ancient text that his vicar of mind had sealed inside him. For months upon end, he lived in a constant state of reflection and contemplation, completely severed from the physical world. Recognizing this newfound ability, Ambrose learned to apply it to everything, most notably battle.

This all changed, however, for the winds of time had began to blow with a new pitch. On one fabled moon, a party of travelers had been forced into his courtyard by a band of Mothmen, large, disgusting men with the characteristics of a Moth. They had been the damned, the travelers of the forest who had been polluted with the black, acid-like blood of the Moth. Observing the battle from his window, Ambrose rushed out to aid them. He could not explain his reason for this, for he felt this strong, almost unrelenting wave of determination to help when he found one in need. With the battle won, Ambrose joined the party of travelers, hoping to relinquish and forget the past that had brought him despair. The gathering of heroes claimed to come from a city on the other side of the planet, a city under theocratic rule. They were sent to purge the Behemoth from the planet, for their religion told of a great and historic battle between the Behemoth and Leviathan that would leave the world in pieces and utter chaos.

For years, Ambrose develops strong bonds with each of the six champions; A man by the name of Guts who housed a will far greater than the length of his giant blade; two rogue drow brothers by the names of Cain and Abel, determined to remove the black flaps from over their still sensitive eyes and look upon the beauty of the two suns; an Avarian who calls herself Gabrielle, with wings more majestic than the ocean at sunset; a Tarmarian called Tarin who was a cumbersome being and a Crystalline Elf (Rena). For the next year, they traveled throughout Achernar, gaining praise and the like, searching for the tomb of the fabled beast… During this time, Ambrose forms a relationship with Rena, a love not as potent as before, but still strong nonetheless. In her eyes, he saw the strength he had seen in Aurora, bound by now chains, completely wild. This moved him dearly.

Under cloak of night and stars ablaze, they finally find the Behemoth, peacefully asleep within his tomb buried hundreds of feet into the ground; alas, their descent awakens the beast from a cold, ancient slumber. The unrelenting force of Satan’s right hand thus stirs the ocean, awakening the Leviathan. A conflict of epic proportions arises as the team of heroes pour all their strength into defeating the monsters, who are content on destroying each other. The battle rages across miles of land and takes many innocent lives.

Sadly, in the fog of battle, all of Ambrose’s friends were slaughtered, whether it be during their final blow or minutes after they had triumphed. It was not a glorious victory, nor was it worthy of celebration. Within the tenderness of his hands, Ambrose held Rena until the last breath had been extracted from her body. Crying out in pain, the poetic soldier becomes shrouded in anxiety and desire to turn to dust; with tears heavier than the burden breaking his knees, Ambrose carries his comrades to his manor, regretful that it has not changed.

“Standing on my own, remembering those I used to know… Forget about the life I used to understand.”

The words still fresh upon his lips, Ambrose constructed a shrine in his backyard to house the bodies of the departed; in doing this, Ambrose is confronted with the memory that took place on that night…the night he had chosen to leave behind his creator. In this, he finds a dose of happiness, for he comes to terms with himself by realizing the simple truth that he is unlike the flawed image he had been created in. Nay, he cared about his friends… In all his heart he could not find a sorrow more gut-wrenching than the death of a beloved.

His comrades weapons (Three blades, two axes, a bow, a scimitar, and a staff) protrude though the dirt around a large tree in the center of his courtyard, which becomes much like a cemetery as Ambrose lives on through the ages, inundated by grief, which slowly manufactures a sense of anxiety within Ambrose, thus creating his third personality: despair.

Ambrose lives on this planet for hundreds of thousands of years, taking in the beauty and trying to deal with his disarray – he continues to help keep Achernar free of evil, and soon becomes as a god amongst the inhabitants of the people, a Guardian of the planet.

Ignore this last paragraph, for it has to do with another RP I'm in.

However, that age quickly passes as many others had before, and he now he finds himself an inhabitant of Illiria, wrought with exhaust. Now, he simply yearns to live out the rest of his days in peace and seclusion, confined to his manor hidden in the Forest of Heroes, free from the troubles that boil around him.

--Other Information--
Nope.

***

Go ahead, post.

[Hip-Hop]

you make first post since I made arena. Also expect to go from Limbo, to hell, back to Limbo, to heaven, back to limbo, etc. in this fight.

[Desert Jesus]

Fine, whatever. -will edit-

[Breakdown]

This seems very very fun... care to make it a three way? ;D

[Hip-Hop]

Three way, interesting Idea. I think I'll take you up on that... YEAH! Really loosen the new BeLac up a bit. BRING IT ON!

[Desert Jesus]

Gah, I am tired. D=

***

Ambrose ran gentle fingers through his crisp, moonlit hair; to the east, he could hear the festivities carry on with unfathomable glee, the sound of laughter shattering the cloud of distress that muddled his windows. The heavens above him were lit with a vibrant, crimson red as the grass began to chew beneath his feet; sauntering to the nearest hedge stone, Ambrose reached for a small pocketbook and retrieved his pen from entanglement in the binding spirals. Applying the pen to paper, he began to draw a beast of sorts… It had been eloquent in its abstract design, as each line had differentiated from the other. As he began to ink what seemed to be an eye, he abruptly stopped and lifted the pen.

“My opponent… The inquisitive angel… Surely, he must be aware of my existence.” The words seemed to drip from the hill beneath his mouth.

Capping his pen, Ambrose firmly grasped the tombstone behind him. With but a small tug, the slab of rock was pulled free of Mother Earth; the soldier of the ages reached in to find the perished arm of an old friend.

“Forgive me, Rotor… I do this not in ill-temper, but in faith.” declared Ambrose, pulling the skeleton from its resting place. The hollow bones echoed as they met each other; it was a sound so nostalgic, that even Ambrose, a man who had witnessed the very essence of hatred, slightly cringed. The loose, corroded mandible slapped up against his cheek as Ambrose tossed the carcass over his back; fitting the right hand between the radius and ulna of the left forearm, he grabbed his pen once again.

He did not surrender himself of the writing implement this time.

“Come, Rotor, we make for that sanctum…that void that enjoys torturing us with temptation.” The words slithered into the night as his body went up in white flame; from the base of the colorless flames raised a wolf not of this world, for its appearance struck that of a sketch.

“Fenrir! Take me to my opponent, and you shall receive the glory of making an appearance in my next epic!” The wolf composed only of an upper body howled into the night, startling the dancers to the east. They tumbled from the stage as his body was swallowed by the mighty animal; the flames that cast a blinding light upon the heavens was thus distinguished and all peace was returned to its previous state. The Manor would be the only home awaiting Ambrose’s return.

---

The white flames rose again. However, there was no sky for the fires to burn into ash. As Fenrir bellowed into an already muddled collection of shrills, two hands emerged from the abyss within his mouth, cupping around his upper and lower jaw. Soon to follow, a head surfaced from the ocean of shadows and grim breath that Fenrir had hosted.

“By the Gods, your breath…is the true power of death. An army of Lucifer’s could be brought to its knees.” jested Ambrose, stepping foot upon solid rock. Peering into the beasts eyes, he gave a short nod. “You can go now. Thank you for your assistance.”

Fenrir was not quick to disobey his master, and thusly perished into the illustrious flames that leisurely vanquished by the invisible hands of the wind. As the brittle crackle died down to a low hum, Ambrose was tersely graced with the far off shrills of the dead; looking over the ledge of the suspended chuck of earth, his eyes widened with disbelief.

“The damned… They shriek openly! How many times have I visited this plain in silence? Not once have I ever witnessed such a dreadful abundance of facades…” Blood leaked from crevices under their eyes, and their skulls seemed to be crooked, as if broken. Eyes swung freely, bodily juices lubricated the sizzling flesh, and the smell of acid seemed to loiter in the air. Looking away, Ambrose closed his eyes, making a casual attempt to wash away what he had just witnessed. Alas, no amount of fluids could coat the eyes with a relieving, holy liquid capable of dismantling his memory. The piercing screams still puncturing his inner eardrum, the poet glanced towards the other end of rock plain, struggling to place his vision as far away as possible from the hell that lingered below his very feet.

“… A door?” Slowly approaching it, hand close to Honor's hilt, he noticed that etched into the gold frame above was a setting sun pierced by a lance. It seemed to bleed light. Looking to the other end of the battlefield, Ambrose noticed another door. From afar, he immediately recognized the wave of bodies carved into the front like an orgy of pagans.

"These doors...leak with life. Surely my opponent does not wish for us to wage war within the hollowed halls of me'lords Throne Room?" The thought was quick to pass.

***

-goes to bed-

[Desert Jesus]

Ok, BD and D2L, someone make a friggin entrance. I've edited a bit on to the end.

[Desert Jesus]

Sorry for the cuble post, bt just lettin you know I just got grounded from the internet so ima have to put this on hold for a while k

[Hip-Hop]

OOC: Considering Breakdown has mystriously dissappeared, I'm gonna go on and post now.

IC: Music, beautiful music, that was all that could be heard throughout the paradise in the sky. The music had almost a hypnotyzing effect, you could so very easily caught up in it's grace that you could forget you were even alive. From somewhere in heaven there came the sound of a great harp, one that being expertly played by none other than BeLac Sheelo himself. Sitting on a stool of solid gold the angel stroked his harp, bringing forth the music of life. He seemed to be looking down at something as he played, having a very serious look on his face. Mere feet below his shoes was spiritual limbo, the place between Heaven and Hell. On the plain that was limbo stood a man, a man named Ambrose Aracely. BeLac had known of this man for quite some time, being an angel his knowledge was great; far beyond that of a mortal's. He watched the man stand there and look downwards, revealing the hell that was below him to his eyes. "Foolish, "spoke BeLac sofly, still strumming his harp. "The time has finally come."

Placing his harp down beside his stool, BeLac stood straight up from where he sat. Looking around he could see the rest of the orchestra of angels, various instruments strumming and humming in tune with each other. Now looking to his left, BeLac saw his familar desk beside him. When he had still resided in heaven, he had used the desk to write great work of literature that only those worthy enought to be accepted could lay eyes upon. Now that he had chosen to explore the omniverse once more it held several things. The first was a large jagged sword, Blasphemy, the one which BeLac had weilded in life. Strapping on the hilt, BeLac sheathed the sword on his back. The next item on the desk was The Sword of Michael, given to him by the angel himself. This hilt at his waste, BeLac sheathed his second sword on his left hip. Two things were still left on the desk at ths point. next was a royal blue trench coat, which BeLac carefully put on covering Blasphemy on his back and his wings sticking out of their perspective holes. Finally was a royal blue fedora, which BeLac picked up and flipped twice in his hand before placing it atop his head. "Ready."

Seemingly sinking through the floor BeLac was now hovering just below heaven and a few feet above limbo. Staring at the man that stoo between, BeLac began to fly towards him. "An inquisitive Angel he calls me eh? hmph." BeLac shrugged off the comment and continued flying, looking down into hell as he flew. beLac knew he wished to acquire the power that rside there, but in order to do it he would have find the entrance to hell and not just go there from here. "If only it were that simple," thought BeLac as he flew. Belac stopped in the air right behind Ambrose and slowly floated himself down. Standing on the grounds behind his opponent, BeLac uttered one thing....

"Name:Ambrose Aracely, Destination:Hell. Straight from the lambs book."

[Desert Jesus]

"Name: Ambrose Aracely, Destination: Hell. Straight from the lamb’s book."

“Prying angel, I am not hard of hearing,” chuckled Ambrose, slightly peering back at his opponent so as his left eye reflected a mysterious, crimson shine.

After a short study of his opponent, Ambrose privileged BeLac with his full figure; grinning with tight lips, Ambrose slowly grasped a gold hilt that lingered behind his right shoulder. “Hell… You, you wish for me to seat myself at the right hand of Lucifer? Why must you wish upon my soul everlasting pain and agony…?” His grin faded. In its place birthed a grave complexion that seemed to eclipse the moons that were his eyes. “I have committed no treason to your God or his subordinates. If you wish death upon me for the reason of this inevitable battle, I fail to see the virtue that separates an angel from a man.” The mirth in his tone had been slain by irritation. His eyes narrowed.

Honor, the blade that had been with him since the birth of time, was now placed firmly at his side, gripped by his left hand. The transformation was swift as a streak of lightning, though there was no thunder to accompany it. “I will show you the strength that wisdom has bestowed upon me, angel.”

Ambrose relieved himself of the corpse’s weight, and with the gentlest concern placed the decomposed flesh against a slender rock perpendicular to the ground. Hand still gripped firmly to Honor, Ambrose reached into the ribcage and formed a rather minute sphere of white matter in the palm of his hand.

Words were uttered, but they could not be heard by any form of superior sensory. After a brief silence, Ambrose pulled his hand from the lined shadow that the ribs were casting on the rock and spine; the swirling orb of white substance continued to linger, not displaying any signs of movement. “My old friend hasn’t witnessed me battle in ages; I brought him to watch.” With a firm step, Ambrose flung his sword out in BeLac’s direction; he matched up the tip of the blade with BeLac’s face, and with a brief grin, charged.

The damned below cried in anguish, sweat sizzling on their hot flesh as they reached up towards the heavens; Ambrose heard these howls, and was left with a burning image of BeLac, lost in the ocean of the ruined.

[Hip-Hop]

"Hmph, all you immortal are the same; don't want to accept your fate." BeLac spoke the words harshly at his opponent, watching him hurl his blade him. Drawing his sword, BeLac used it's enternal light as the source of his power. Placing his hand in front of his face BeLac created a sheild of light which the sword merely bounced off of. Now trying to contend to the charging Ambrose, BeLac flew up into the air and then straight back down. Extending his elbow as he went, BeLac knocked Ambrose on the top of his head. The blow sent BeLac's opponent through floor, and straight into hell.

"I told you you were going to hell." BeLac was now standing over the whole he had made in the floor, staring down into the black abyss. Dropping into hell, BeLac drew the sword of Michael automatically. "Foul beast of the pits of hell! I weild a heavenly sword bathed in holy light! If you come near me you shall surely die!" BeLac screamed the words at the demons who had been closing in on him as soon as he entered. As if on que, BeLac spun around and decapitated a foolish demon who had tried to sneak up on him. "I told you."

Now refocusing on the battle at hand, BeLac was convinced he could end this hear and now. Ambrose was still on the ground from his last hit, and BeLac simply walked over to him. "Do you know what would happen if I were to toss you to those demons there?" BeLac took delight in toying with Ambrose, oh how was enjoying this. "You most likely don't, so let me break it down for you. First they would rip the skin off of you, exposing you soft tender flesh. Then they would devour you, but since you are immortal you wouldn't die so they continually eat you over and over. But wait there's more. After they were done feeding they would then offer you up to Lucifer, and only god knows what he would do to you. Although I can imagine it would be quite painful. Finally after all of that, they would cast you into the lake of fire, a bottomless pit in which you very soul would burn for all enternity." Now walking around Ambrose, BeLac picked him up by his armor. "Of course all of that is theoretical. Never been through that myself. Guess you could find out for me." Then, with a sadistic gleam in his eyes, BeLac tossed him to the demons. "Tell Luci I said hello!"

OOC: Reviving this battle FTW.