Worthy Core

Parker's ability to take on the form of one of his enemy's fears had always been something of a guessing game. He'd never fought a Challenger one-on-one outside of sparring, but he can't merge fears from multiple people - he has to choose. So, whenever an adventurer party would enter his arena he'd have about five seconds to try and guess which opponent might have the most powerful fear which he could take advantage of.

In a room filled with over a hundred mortals that power threatens to turn into full-blown choice paralysis. As the dungeon system treats all of the mortals within the dungeon as intruders, all of his allies are pinging his senses as potential targets for his shapeshifting. There'd been considerations made of taking advantage of that - of figuring out which Challenger or soldier had the worst fear and preemptively taking that form before the start of the battle. However, if no one on the opposite side happened to share that particular fear then he would ultimately be just another dungeon monster. It's the personal touch that really makes the whole thing work, in Parker's opinion.

When the enemy monsters of the Dungeon Legion begin pouring into the arena he can tell that he won't get much out of them. It's not that dungeon monsters can't feel fear, but it's certainly far more muted. In the case of true dungeon guardians rather than the reincarnates used by Worthy Dungeon they have no childhood traumas, no evolved fear responses, and not even a true fear of death. It's not long before mortals begin coming in after them however, and as one man in particular steps into the arena Parker realizes he has no real choice as to who to choose after all - this is an opponent he must counter.

For his part Pretty Thing is temporarily distracted by a half-dozen Abyssal Horrors leaping down onto his party. The stings of the insect swarms had done little damage to them, and many of the Dungeon Legion had rushed past too quickly for them to become targets. An incubus and his friends though are apparently just the sort of snack they're looking for. "The dungeon's using insectoids of its own! Smash the buggers if you would, please."

Grenwald does exactly that, crushing one with his warhammer, but the rubbery exoskeleton of the thing seems to resist much of the damage. "What, are these part cockroach? Usually insect shells crack just fine when you give em a good hammering!"

"Allow me to sweep these aside." Tiffany gets to work negating the xeno threat, using her warping of space to toss the nearby horrors into a pile. Whenever one tries to leap at a member of her party it simply finds itself flung in a different direction, landing atop its confused kin. It's also not much of a damaging attack against the monsters, but it does certainly manage to turn them into tidy targets for the other mercenaries coming after them. With that issue at least partially taken care of Tiffany turns forward once again - and notices a rather unusually-dressed figure heading their way. "Pretty, is that a mage...?"

"I see him." There's something clipped about the incubus's speech, and if Tiffany weren't already feeling rather stressed out at the moment that alone would certainly manage to do the job. "I'll handle this one. You two continue to push forward."

Grenwald snorts. "What, is it another ex-boyfriend of yours - aggghhh!" The kobold spasms as a sudden wave of pain passes through him, and the man looks toward Pretty with a mixture of fear and anger. "Did you - ? Fine! Fuck, it's personal then, sorry! Don't fuckin' do that again!"

There's no response, as by this point the Sensationalist is now fully focused on the mage standing ahead of them. Pale-skinned and grey-eyed, the most striking thing about him is his terribly anachronistic fashion. His multilayered robes are covered in arcane symbols, and the man's flat-topped cap is of a style not seen for centuries. It's one that Pretty recognizes immediately, though. "Warlock fashion. No one's worn that in quite a long time, friend. Even if one of those bastards managed to survive the breaking of chains, none of them would've been foolish enough to wear that sort of garb in public. I should know - I spent enough time helping to hunt down the ones that tried."

The mage's lips curl in a slight smile. "From your colorful attire I can see you're a man of fashion yourself. Do my robes thus offend you so terribly?" The man's speech is another oddity, drawing a few looks his way. It's largely similar to the average human Rainlander accent, yet some of the pronunciations are almost unrecognizable - at least to those who've never spent time on the Old Continents.

"The robes less than the face. Though that gives you away, friend. Were you simply some random mage in warlock garb, I could have possibly imagined some scenario where a hidden warlock somehow made their way this far and for some reason joined forces with the dungeon. It's been a strange one in enough other ways, after all. But this warlock?" Pretty's lips split in a sneer. "I killed this one personally. Very painfully, I might add, and as I'd only just begun learning my trademark magic at that point, it was largely a manual effort. One I enjoyed, I must say."

The warlock's staff taps the ground as the man takes a step forward, drawing attention to the horned humanoid skull fixed to the top of it. "And yet after hundreds of years this is still the face you fear most, hrmm? Nothing you've faced in all of those years comes close? No revenge you took could wipe him from your mind? Perhaps you should have chosen more peaceful means of advancing your power. Something to heal the soul, maybe."

"Oh, I don't regret this moment. In fact, I enjoy the fact that you've given me a chance to torture this bastard a second time!" Pretty thrusts his hand forward, but stares in shock as nothing seems to happen. "...Is this some mental magic at work? You've somehow blocked my powers? Explain this!"

Parker grins as he does so. After all, every minute that he keeps the Supreme-tier mercenary talking, it's a minute that he's not spending inflicting his painful brand of magic on Parker's allies. "Are you surprised? Binding a demon so that they cannot harm their summoner is the first thing warlocks do. Even I know that much."

"Those bindings were broken!" Pretty shouts, all thought of the surrounding battle gone from his mind. "I saw the fear in his eyes when he realized what had happened! It was one of the greatest moments of my life!"

"Which means that's not the version of this man which you fear, now is it?"

Pretty seethes for a moment, trying to work out if there's a way for his magic to bypass this strange immunity, but eventually the demon decides he has a more immediate solution at hand. "Perhaps you might be immune to my spells. How are you are handling blades driven through your heart? I imagine that will work perfectly fine!"

The man raises his sword and charges forward, enhancing his own body as he does so, but Parker responds with an instinctive spell of his own. "Chains of Punishment!" The empty eye sockets of his staff glow and chains rip from the sand before him, but not any mundane links of iron or steel are these. They're part magic, part barbed wire, and the razor-sharp restraints leap towards the advancing mercenary. His blade rips through some, likely an enchanted artifact itself, but a few do manage to nick his arms or legs. They seem to pass right through his clothing, although small bloodstains which begin to seep through indicate that his flesh is not spared their effects. Still, Pretty laughs as he cuts himself loose.

"A pale imitation! The originals were ten times stronger than these - and the last time they were used on me, I was far weaker than this!"

"Hrmm. Stench of Rot." The skull on Parker's staff drops its jaw, and a black-green cloud of gas spews its way in Pretty's direction. The man shudders briefly as it hits him, but he controls himself quickly.

"A nausea and sickness spell? Simple effects for me to overcome. I'm beginning to think this imitation of yours isn't going to hurt much more than my feelings."

Parker attempts to cast again, but by then Pretty's speed-enhanced sword is already swinging for his neck. And then, to the surprise of both combatants...he dodges easily. Glancing at his own arm, Pretty curses. "Slowing even my blows against you?! No matter...I can push through this. And I'm far more a swordsman than this monster of a mage ever was."

Refocusing, he continues his assault, but this time instead of dodging or casting more spells, Parker begins using his staff to deflect the attacks. Against a normal Supreme-tier combatant this would probably lead to a rather quick death, but the false binding slowing Pretty down seems to put them on nearly equal footing. Grinning, the dungeon guardian decides it's a good time to add in a bit more taunting.

"I'll admit, magecraft was never really my thing, even if this body does shove some into my head now and then. I'm a simple woodsman - a good brawl is much more on my level." While his staff does have enough metal in it to provide some protection against Pretty's blade, Parker switches it to his off-hand during an opportune moment so that he can demonstrate his words by socking Pretty in the face.

"Hrnf! A simple woodsman fighting for a dungeon? Becoming fear incarnate? How does that come about, I wonder." As Pretty continues to attack he learns to work around his restrictions a little bit more, and bit by bit his blade comes closer to actually injuring his opponent. Not quite yet, though.

"Oh, that's easy. The dungeon pays me in babies. Very flexible employer, she is."

"Babies!? What sort of insane - ung!" The demon's moment of distraction becomes rather more severe when Parker gives the man a sudden kick in the balls, but to the guardian's dismay the flash of pain only lasts a second. "You low-blow disgrace! Gah, enough of this!"

Quickly returning his sword to his sheath, Pretty settles for simply leaping atop Parker and attempting to pummel him to death. The binding effect does slow his blows a little, but it seems to have much less effect at such close range and when fought in such a direct manner. Parker's no stranger to a good brawl but as the man discovers, this false mage's body is somewhat weaker than his own original human form, let alone that of the Rabbit Patriarch form he's grown used to.

Still, the former woodsman does have his tricks, and Pretty finds himself relying on pain-numbing magic to continue the fight more than he'd like. Each of the men beats each other bloody and as Parker hits the man with a blow that may have just broken a rib or two, Pretty responds with a move that shatters the offending arm. The loss of a limb shifts the balance quickly, and a hard butt from Pretty's horned head dazes the monster long enough for the incubus to wrap his hands around his opponent's neck. Leaning in close, he whispers not-so-sweet nothings into the man's ear.

"I know you dungeon creations don't need to breathe, but a snapped neck should be able to get the job done. I suppose dealing with babies hasn't taught you how to fight your way out of this, has it?"

Despite his condition, Parker grins as he chokes out a few words. "Got...got your...got your nose."

The incubus doesn't have time to be confused before Parker snaps forward, gripping the threatened protrusion between his teeth. There's a sickening ripping, and it's followed up by the equally nauseating sound of a neck being snapped. Of course, given the dozens if not hundreds of mortals and monsters fighting to the death around them, hardly anyone is there to notice.

Pretty reaches for his ruined face, but for the moment all he can do is use his magic to stop the bleeding. Still, there's a smile on his lips.

"...Worth it."

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