« Prev 1 Next » Reply Share Thread Facebook Twitter Tumblr LinkedIn MySpace Email Go to Previous Thread Next Thread Please make a selection first Author Topic: "Blood Meridian" - The Tourney Begins (Read 261 times) zev Guest [send pm] Joined: January 1970 Posts: 0 "Blood Meridian" - The Tourney Begins « Jul 18, 2009 17:48:20 GMT -6 » Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Back to Top *NOTE* - This is the opening thread for my non-staff sponsored tournament. Six fighters have entered into the tournament and they will meet each other and their surroundings/hosts here first. Spectators and anybody else is welcome to mingle with the contestants, but please have a good reason for being here. This isn't exactly your local boxing gym. Control of the NPC 'Jack' or his helpers is open to anyone, just don't steal him or his guys away from anyone else. Have fun everybody... Blood. According to Merriam-Webster's Dictionary, it means primarily 1: the fluid that circulates in the heart, arteries, capillaries, and veins of a vertebrate animal carrying nourishment and oxygen to and bringing away waste products from all parts of the body. But its second definition states 2: the shedding of blood ; also : the taking of life. Meridian. In ancient times it meant midday, high noon when the sun was at its zenith in the sky. In contemporary times it has come to mean a general divider, a midway mark. Considering the etymology and connotations of these two words, it is fitting that "Gentleman" Jack Sands' tournament should be called Blood Meridian. The place: the US-Mexican border, roughly forty miles southeast of Chula Vista. Mountains, caves, sandstone, and dry deserts are the main features here. There are no paved roads, no nearby settlements, at least none currently named or inhabited. Taking place mainly in the turn of the century ghost town of Santa Miguel, the "town" is as run-down, backwoods, and spooky as you can get. Mud brick pueblos with their roofs caved in, sagebrush and sand drifts choking the alleyways, wooden walkways cracked and splintered into waves of old-grey ash. No running water, no wired electricity, no phones, no year round human residents for at least twenty miles. A graveyard on the outskirts marks the only evidence that people of any kind once called this rocky, barren place home. Even the local drug cartels steer clear of this area, frightened by the echoes coming off the high cliff walls and the stories of ghosts and flesh hungry spirits. But once a year, in the middle of the oppressive, deadly July heat, a man comes to Santa Miguel. Helped by a crew of roughly six and loaded down with four pickup trucks worth of supplies, he lumbers into town, picking his way across the potholes and boulders. Parking in the center of town, he and his crew work fast and efficiently, gasing up generators and stringing lights, nailing together bleachers and laying out food and water. The middle aged man, a wiry five-foot-eight guy with dark hair, pale skin, and an air of death, is "Gentlemen" Jack Sands. An ex-Irish national, one time pro boxer and former IRA terrorist, Jack is as hardened and unyielding as the bleak land that surrounds him. Not much else is known about the man, except that once a year, he holds a tournament. A fighting tournament. No holds barred. And, sometimes, to the death. For the past decade he has hosted the tourney, using funds and connections he's gained from his terrorist past to bankroll the event. The fights are a huge underground draw, with hundreds of people making the dangerous trek into the mountains to view the event. Smugglers, mobsters, businessmen, politicians, laborers, all come for one reason only: the ultimate in human combat. This year, Jack has decided to up the ante by inviting amateurs, fighters without records or histories. This, he reckons, will help satisfy the blood lust of his demanding crowds. Pros stop short, hold punches. Fresh faces will pummel each other until they're burger meat. And with the chance to win $10,000 on the line, who could resist? So Jack sent out the invites to a nearby corporal punishment high school, home to some of the worst of the worst in America. The Collective it was called. And six fighters answered the challenge. The construction completed, Jack looked at his watch and nodded his head. They'd be arriving soon, spectators and fighters alike. The night would be spent in partying, as everyone drank and smoked and prepared, sleeping whenever they could find space and quiet. The next morning...the fights would begin. It was going to be a bloody good time... OOC: This will give you a good general feeling for what's about to happened. Fill in details as you see fit, try to make this a collective effort of cool instead of having me or one person spell it out. If you have any specific questions, feel free to PM me. « Last Edit: Jul 18, 2009 17:57:01 GMT -6 by zev » Back to Top   eva Guest [send pm] Joined: January 1970 Posts: 0 "Blood Meridian" - The Tourney Begins « Jul 18, 2009 18:23:44 GMT -6 » Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Back to Top Mac Frasier lifted his gym bag over his shoulder as he opened door from the local gym he had trained at for many a year. He stopped and turned back to Doc, the one who spoke to him. He was in his forties, a man past his prime in boxing, now Mac's trainer and only true friend beside his parents. If there was one man Mac trusted with his life, it was Doc, and while he trusted Doc's judgement and knew it to be right, Mac shook his head. "Sorry, Doc...but I've gotta do this. In the boxing ring I'm a made champ. You said it yourself I could be a champion, the next big thing in Boxing. But I've realized there's more to it in this world then that. Outside this ring there's so much more. You know how much I value elders and experience, don't ya?" Doc sighed and nodded. He knew it to be true. Besides Boxing, Mac cared for experience in this world. He wanted to live and if competing in this tournament meant getting closer to that, then by all mean. Besides, it wasn't as if Mac was going to get pulverized. He was a great fighter, experienced, had the eye and heart to win. "Well, I'm coming with ya then. If you're going to do this, you'll need mah help with it'all." And that was it. The two left the gym, a sole warrior and his advisor, and arrived at Santa Miguel and the tournament area some time later. The whole way there was made mostly in silence, talking not necessary between the two. Usually, they'd be talking tactics, but they didn't their opponents nor did they believe that many tactics learned in the ring would help here. In a way, Mac would be doing this somewhat blind. He had fought in many a street fights, but he knew that this was different from that. Doc quickly had a drink in his hand, but Mac did not accept any drinks offered to him. He had much more important things to worry about then drinking, like scounting out the challenge. He wondered what drove the other fighters to fight in this tournament. 10,000 smackers was quite the sum, but it's not what drove Mac to fight. He didn't care for the money. He was in this for far more important reasons and he wondered if his opponents were in this for the same reasons or for much more greedier reasons. He was also interested in meeting this Jack fellow who was the host of the tournament. It was always nice to meet your host. But the fighters would be first. "Now then, where to start..."[/size][/color][/ul] « Last Edit: Jul 18, 2009 18:24:38 GMT -6 by zev » Back to Top   Andy Daws Mentor Swagger of a Cripple I'm The Bomb. No, literally, I blow stuff up. With my mind and junk. [send pm] Joined: June 2009 Posts: 2,192 "Blood Meridian" - The Tourney Begins « Jul 18, 2009 21:33:34 GMT -6 » Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top (ooc: Well this sounds like good wholesome fun, eh? Just started playing Mad World on the Wii, so it fits real well.) The moon shone through the wisping clouds as the dark blue sky rolled past. The wrestler laid in the back of an old pick-up truck on the way to a small town at the US-Mexican border. Roth watched the sky through his dark sunglasses as he rode away from the town and city. A pair of crutches lay by his side next to another man entered in the up coming event (ooc: Who wants to bunk with me?) ---earlier that day--- "Ey Rothy-boy, come 'ere for a sec will ya." A short pudgy Irish-Mexican man sat behind a desk covered in paper and porn. His name was Jesse MacIntyre, owner of Jesse's Bar and Grille, and the San Diego Championship Fighters League. The large wrestler took a seat across the desk and adjusted his muscular body accordingly. Roth took off a pair of sunglasses from his face and folded them up in his left hand. "Morn'in. So what'da ya call me in for?" "Well, an associate of mine is holding his annual event today. He called me up and told me to send my best man down. It had to be a Collective guy, so I figured you'd be the best guy for the job." "What is it, when is it and whats it pay?" Jesse took a pause and a long drag on his cigar before continuing. "It's called Blood Meridian, run by 'Gentleman' Jack Sands. It takes place tomorrow morning, but theres an intro party tonight. You'll get 500 for going, and the winner get 10,000. As long as you get the word out about SDCFL and do a damn good job I don't care if ya win." Roth's jaw dropped at the sound of 10,000 bucks. He had a couple thousand saved from fighting and odd jobs here and there, but this was one hell of a pay load. He thought about it and decided to go. The money was nice, but if The Peacemakers would go anywhere he needed Intel, experience, training, and good look at the real underground. "Alright. So I guess I'll see ya in a few days then eh?" The fat owner slammed 5 hundred dollar bills on the table. Roth grabbem all and shoved them into the wallet in his pack pocket. "Theres a red truck out pack waiting for ya. Have fun. And don't get killed." ---Present--- Roth took his hands from behind his head and began to sit up against the back window of the truck. Mountains and desert surrounded the entire landscape as he looked over to the man with him in the truck bed, "So what brings you to the Blood Meridian?" « Last Edit: Jul 18, 2009 21:37:18 GMT -6 by Andy Daws » Back to Top   Bio mir Guest [send pm] Joined: January 1970 Posts: 0 "Blood Meridian" - The Tourney Begins « Jul 18, 2009 23:28:18 GMT -6 » Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Back to Top Ten grand? It was about half of Bishop's monthly income. Having an extortion and blackmail ring made life effortlessly easy for the Iranian criminal. The real prize was worth ten times as much. There were a lot of underground types present in tournaments such as the Blood Meridian's, but those that really caught Mir's eye were the politicians, men and women with public facades of decency and family values showing the uglier half of their persona here. If there was one man who was more than eager to get some names and pictures and use this evidence as leverage, it was certainly Bishop Mir. The Iranian guessed that the local city and state officials would come to this event, and he did not mind having some direct influence in the San Diego area's political system. As a matter of fact, he would've loved it. So it was no surprise when the white haired man accepted to participate in the tournament as an excuse to get on location. So what if he had to fight? Mir had more than enough experience to hold his own against whatever the Collective's student body could throw at him. Though for now, as he was in the pick-up truck along the other contestants, he made sure that he would remain unrecognizable, sporting a gray sleeveless cotton sweater, hiding his face underneath its hood. Beneath it a simple white wife-beater covered his abdomen, while a pair of tan weight-lifting gloves protected his hands. A pair of feather-weight brown capris and gray running shoes completed his dull attire, making him appear unremarkable and unrecognizable. A familiar figure asked him what brought him to the tournament. Bishop said the truth - well, most of it. "Money." Back to Top   swolf Guest [send pm] Joined: January 1970 Posts: 0 "Blood Meridian" - The Tourney Begins « Jul 20, 2009 13:16:38 GMT -6 » Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Back to Top Motivations. In the structured life of today's men and women, they all seemed to think motivations were necessary. You go to work so you can get money. You get money so you can buy things you like. You buy things you like so you can be happy. Of course, different paths could also lead to different results, but Singing Wolf completely cut out the middle man. He simply did he was made him happy. Currently, what made the Apache happy was the thought of slipping his knife underneath the chin of someone else. He sat cross-legged atop the truck's cabin, or what was formerly known as "indian style" before that became politically incorrect. You know what's politically incorrect? Genocide followed by an apology. Did Singing Wolf hold a grudge against the white man? Not quite. He likes to think of himself as an equal opportunity hater. For most of the ride here the Sons of Judas member kept his eyes clothes, feeling the environment rather than merely seeing it. He could feel the air on his face, smell the sand in his nose, hear the coyotes in the distance, and almost taste the blood of his opponents. The thought caused him to smile. Singing Wolf opened his eyes just before the trucks came to a stop, quickly doing another mental check of the aresenal under his deerskin jacket. Standing up, Singing Wolf slapped his jeans as he dusted them off, hopping down onto the desert floor as he gazed over the rest. After someone walking around, he was able to surmise a decent guess at who he thought to be the fighters out of the small group. Blowing past them all, he grabbed a nearby bottle of whiskey, leaning against the truck as he uncapped it, thinking of what was to come. Blood and thunder. Back to Top   zev Guest [send pm] Joined: January 1970 Posts: 0 "Blood Meridian" - The Tourney Begins « Jul 20, 2009 17:18:13 GMT -6 » Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Back to Top Imagine for a moment that you are JT. You're over six feet of solid muscle, your people skills are practically zero, you have wild, bleach blond hair, red eyes from burst capillaries, and a temper shorter than your little toe. Now imagine trying to find a ride forty miles into the American southwest, looking for a ghost town that's not mapped to compete in a tournament that's not supposed to exist. Sound like a pretty impossible journey? Well, it nearly was. It had taken JT nearly a week of hiking to punch his way through the deserts and mountains, finally arriving at Santa Miguel the night before the contest. Camping out in a cheap military pup tent on a cliff overlooking the ruins, JT awoke the next morning to the sounds of construction, trucks, and dozens of newly arrived fighters and spectators. Stretching out his tight limbs on the dusty bluff above, he watched with eagle eyes to determine who his opponents might be. The group in the truck looked like likely suspects. Well, he thought, let's go say hello... Sliding down the steep slope on his ass and feet, he touched down a couple dozen yards outside the main arrival gate. Brushing off some of the week's worth of trail dust, he approached the group in a confident yet watchful way. The blond must have been a sight to behold. Barefoot, barechested and sunburned, wearing only a dirt stained pair of long track pants, his hair spiky and wild, blue-red eyes glancing back and forth like a wary dog. Coming up the truck with the group he imagined to be the fighters, he said loudly, "You assholes got a truck to bring you in? And here I had to walk the forty fucking miles. Hope you guys are worth the time..." And with that he passed on by, heading straight for the refreshments table. Digging his soiled hands into a bowl full of tortilla chips, he began munching on breakfast just as "Gentleman" Jack came strolling through the crowd. Wearing a black tank top and faded jeans, the blading man with the close cropped hair didn't appear all that intimidating despite the prominent boxer's build underneath the shirt. Coming up to JT however, he stood and stared into the wild man's eyes, not the slightest shred of worry or doubt in his gaze. JT, a man accustomed to exchanging more words with eyes than lips, stopping chewing and understood instantly the message being sent by Jack. Behave yourself until the fights begin, or I'll castrate you with my bare hands. Got it dog? JT swallowed hard and nodded. Even this feral animal wasn't stupid enough to tangle with an aura that strong and menancing. The message sent, Jack continued on his way towards the others, still gathered by the entrance gate. "Fuck me..." JT muttered under his breath, and resumed his foraging among the food tables. Back to Top   Reply Share Thread Facebook Twitter Tumblr LinkedIn MySpace Email Go to Previous Thread Next Thread Please make a selection first