Chapter 4: Otherworld

It was just like a training sessions, Spike thought, as he trailed behind Cian up the flattened-grass path towards the top of Glastonbury Tor. Panting, and trying to regulate breathing, Spike thought of asking Cian to wait up, but then he remembered there was no time.

Tourists and hippies, new ages types with their crystal pendulums and serene gazes, walked past the boys, unaware of the invisible war unfolding around them. At the top of the mound, the gray tower, set in front of a sapphire-blue sky, stood waiting, a portal.

Cian stopped outside and surveyed the tower. Spike said nothing, content that his partner was in control. Looking through the archway, Spike could see clear onto the other side. Glastonbury, and its green, inviting hills, spread across the landscape, into the sky.

"Give me a moment, Spike," Cian said. "I'll do what I can." He closed his eyes, and began whispering in a language that Spike didn't recognize. It sounded like wind and running water, and something about it drew a deeply embedded primal response.

Spike, normally not the quickest on the uptake, suddenly realized Cian was calling him by his first name...more than he called him 'boyo', anyway. The young fighter took the opportunity to collect his breath, and took a walk around the tower perimeter. It was an old structure, full of latent energy. It was only in the last few months or so that Spike, having instructors and tutors to guide him in harnessing the abilities of his glyph, the source of his magick, had begun to pick up on the subtle (or unsubtle) energies running through all things, living or no. Whatever magick had been woven here from the leyline beneath the Tor had transformed this ruin into a conduit. It was like a livewire. It made all of Spike's arm hairs stand on edge, and he suspected if he touched the side of the edifice, it would fill him up like a battery.

Spike completed his circuit, meeting Cian back where they started. Anxious at what had just happened with Slayer, and annoyed that Spike hadn't though to bum rush and spear the cosplaying knight in the gut before he made his exit into the Otherworld, Spike shrugged impatiently.

"So. What?"

Cian glared at him from the side of his face. "I'm doing my best. It's been awhile since I've worked with old ma--" He stopped.

Spike frowned, waving a hand in front of Cian's face. "Yes? Ground control to..." he stammered, realizing what Cian was staring at. "To...woah."

Where blue skies and green hills were once framed by the stone archway, an entirely different time of day awaited Spike and Cian through the door. All around the tower, blue skies. Spike, coming to his sensed, did a quick lap. He could see Cian, and the path down the Tor, from the other side. 

Spike re-joined his companion, peering into the world beyond. It was a moonlit night there, casting long, indigo shadows across hills of silvery grass. Deep lines in the earth, sygils or symbols in spiralling patterns, gave off an enchanting light. Without asking Cian, Spike knew this could be nothing than the Otherworld of the Shining Ones.

Cian winced, touching his temples. "Agh. I'm getting the feeling I get before I Blood Frenzy." He quickly added, "I don't think I will though. You're not pissing me off.... right now, anyway.

Spike bit his lip. He'd bee on the receiving end of one of Cian's wild streaks recently, and wasn't keen on experiencing it again. "You think we should do this? Should we get Joseph?"

As soon as Spike said this, as if tempting them, the portal rippled, become more translucent. 

"Don't have time," Cian said, marching forward. He sighed. "Okay. I can't believe I'm doing this but..." he sighed, forced a smile, and turned to Spike, holding his hand up. "Tag in. You're my fight buddy right now, Spike. I'll need your backup."

Spike found himself starry eyed. He coughed and tried to downplay it, giving Cian a tepid high five. "Yeah, sure. We got this."

It was like walking through water...or, as Spike thought, Jell-O. As soon as they were on the 'other side', the atmosphere itself shifted. The night was cool and balmy, perfumed with a strange, smoky sweetness. Dreamlike, Spike turned to see the arch behind them, still intact. Only, the tower abutted the rest of a castle-like building, or monestary. 

"How..." Spike started. He felt like he was in a trance, or drunk. Something about this place...

"Don't ask me how it works, as we don't have time," Cian said. "You...okay?"

In a fugue state, Spike smiled and swooned. "Yeahhh. Everything feels great."

"Hm. You don't have Faeblood. This place is naturally enchanted." He grabbed Spike, hard, by the shoulder, snapping him to his senses. "Okay, listen. Don't eat anything here. Don't speak to anything here. Stay by me. If something draws your attention, tell me, and look away. Got it?"

Spike nodded. "Yeah. Hey, you hear that? His ears perked up at a distant, baleful cry.

Cian looked out into the faewild, with its mists as thick as water hovering below marshes. The moon shone brighter here, somehow, but without a harshness on the eyes. In the distant horizon, lights cycled in rainbow hues. Cian couldn't fathom what they were. Houses? Something akin to the aurora borealis he'd seen in the north? Or, something stranger still? An instinct in his gut told him not to look, and so he turned towards the direction of the brays and howls.

Barking, and then shadows, heralded the arrival of a pack of wild animals. Wolf, dog, or coyote, Spike wasn't sure, but he knew that their cries turned his blood into ice. "Cian," he whispered. "I don't like that."

"Neither do I," Cian grunted, nodding towards a collection of odd, violet shrubs encircled by a grove of birches. "Hide."

Spike didn't argue. Cian shepherded him along, an eye on the vale below where this odd, dark pack of hounds moves. Among them, a horse--larger than an Earthly horse--driven by a dark figure in cloak and armor.

Cian gasped. "The Wild Hunt."

"What?" Spike whisper, shouted. He stopped. Cian was already on the pasty side, but he'd suddenly grown paler.

Cian put his finger to his lips and tucked Spike behind a veil of bushes. Even so, he suspected it wouldn't matter. He had hoped they'd find Slayer easily and not have to deal with any of this realm's denizens. Instead, they'd just run into quite possible the most dangerous beings to patrol the faewild. A dullahan would have given them less reason to dread than the hunting hounds of the Dead Lord.

Spike and Cian held their breath and tried to peer between the gaps in the leaves. Spike thought his heart might freeze entirely. What he had witnessed at Chichen Itza had been otherworldy enough to unnerve him, but this was beginning to border on raw terror. He'd gladly take a cage match with Vahni Rage any day.

The hounds, in all different shapes and forms, came snarling and sniffing the earth. Some eyes milky white, like marble, and others an eerie green. Their black coats were not made of tuft and fur, but smoke, and an oily blackness. Their presence heralded a bed of violet mist, creeping along the ground, and in that vapor, Spike thought he could make out ghoulish, skeletal faces. Presiding over the pack, the horse was all skin, draped over bones, yet strong and sturdy and adorned with silvery armor. The rider, also tall, wore a black, velvet cape with red inlay, over a silver armor. His helm was in the shape of a skull, and his eyes burned like rubies in fire.

Spike closed his eyes, certain as certain that this was death incarnate. Cian knew otherwise, but in truth, Spike's assumption wasn't far off the mark.

Turning his head this way and that, the dark figure surveyed the grove. The hounds drew closer, sniffing out the stink of human flesh. Cian, thinking, placed his hand on Spike's head.

Yes, I'm talking to you inside your head. You can thank me glyph for that. And no, I can't read your thoughts. I need you to hold your breath, as long as you can. I'll explain why later.

Spike did as told, taking in a lungful, even as he felt the temptation to scream.

The figured rights his horse, in their direction. It pulled its skull-shaped visor up, exposing its face to the night air. Angelic, androgynous, with white, straight hair, the being's skin was the color and glow of the moon. Its eyes, much the same. It spoke, in a melodious echo.

"And what we have here? Human. No. Not entirely." A thin, cruel smile cut across its face. "You two can come out, now. There is no point in hiding. Quickly no, before I tire of the game and sick my hounds on you."

Cian sighed and bid Spike to do as told. As soon as they were out of the bush, facing down a pack of growling, otherworldy dogs and their leader, Cian prostrated himself.

"Blessed Anwyn, Guardian of the Dead, I beseech you. We do not mean trespass. We have merely--"

"On your feet; you embarrass yourself." The figure laughed, though not kindly. "The time your like worshipped us as gods is long past. You ask for forgiveness of your trespass, and yet..." It stopped, looking the muscular red-head over. "The stench of mortal does not cling to your flesh as such. You are a half-breed? A changeling perhaps? Answer me, boy."

"N-no," Cian said, truthfully. "I carry the blood of the First Kin, the Shining Ones. I am a son of the Tuatha De Danaan."

"Hmph," the spectre, this Anwyn of the Dead, turned his head up at the statement. "I seem to recall certain mortal kings were known to sire thousands of bastards, but this did not make royalty of their children. Still, there is some truth to you. Step closer, now. I want to get a look at you."

Spike looked to Cian. Cian did as he was told. He presented himself to the Lord of the Dead.

The white-haired one looked him over, expression unchanging. Finally, after-too long am moment, it raised its head in intrigue. "Ah, but I know that blood well. The Hound of Cullen. A wily one, indeed. A bastard you are not, though obviously untempered. You wield the Blood Frenzy of the Hound, don't you? Very interesting. Well, indulge me further, before I decide whether or not I should have my dogs rip you and that pretty one to bits."

Spike looked up. "Pretty?"

"Shhh," Cian said. He breathed deeply. "We seek the Chalice of Compassion, which was entrusted to your kind some aeons back. There are forces that amass that would steal and it do it harm. We come, with heads bowed, to borrow it."

Anwyn of the Dead narrowed his eyes, and tugged on his horses' reigns. "Politely spoken, halfling. And truthfully--I will give you that. You are wise enough not to deceive. Yet, why should I care for the affairs of mortals? Another war? Hmm? Another power grab? You're so practicable with your schemes. Tell me, why should give you...this?"

The rider's armor jangled as it held its gauntlet-clad hand out. In a blink, a cup of emerald green, with a decidedly Medieval design, materialized in Anwyn's hands. Its stem was flanked by the detailed carving of a dragon with its tail intertwined around a unicorn, not in combat, but in an affectionate embrace. 

For some reason Spike thought of Cian and himself from the other night (he, of course, was the unicorn).

Just as Cian felt he was on the cusp of getting somewhere, the ethereal guardian's eyes twitched. "Oh? Another interloper?"

He turned his horse to face the column of green light that had sprouted from the ground. Anwyn's hounds arched their backs and growled, the low reverberation making Spike's skin creep anew.

A silhouette took solid shape in the light column. Slayer burst forth and drew his sword.

"You idiot!" Cian roared, drowned out by the abrupt snarl of the hounds as they took flight to defend their master.

Then, they stopped, as if they had run into an invisible wall. Screeching and whimpering, they drew back from the illuminated blade in Slayer's hands. Even Anwyn turned his nose up, casting Slayer under his cold, prodding eyes.

"What a clever trick," the lord said, holding up a hand, indicating that Slayer would be wise not to tread an inch closer. Miraculously, it worked. "A blade wrought of fairy bane. Such a curious and infuriating alloy. Wait...you carry the scent of dragons. A cambion? Here? In this realm?"

Cian picked up on Slayer's nervous energy. He was out of his depth. Still, he brandished his blade. "Hand me the Chalice, lord of the fae," Slayer barked.

Anwyn laughed at the suggestion. "A dragon kin and a halfling, both beseeching me for sacred treasure. What a curious turn of fate!"

"He's not with us," Cian was quick to point out. "He's the one I warned you about."

Anywyn held up a hand. "Enough. Mortals and your mortal games. Clearly, human blood has diluted any purity in your respective stock. Is it sport you're after? I can see the warrior's instinct in all your eyes. Your souls are perfumed by the stink of combat and spilled blood. If that is what you crave, and this Chalice is your prize, then perhaps we shall put this to battle." The cup vanished out of his hands, gone somewhere safer.

Before Cian could protest, Anwyn had vanished from his mount, re-appearing in a circle of moonlight, guarded by his loyal canines. Gone was his armor. Instead, his muscular flesh sparkled in the moonlight. He wore gossamer pants, which seemed woven of air, yet they concealed his modesty well enough. 

"I will not raise a fist to kin, half-blooded or nay." He looked over at Slayer, whose eyes burnt in the moonlight, ready to scrap. "I will fight this one, who presumes he can conjur forbidden magicks to rip the tapestry of worlds and enter this sacred realm." 

"Cease your trickery, Shining One," Slayer said. It wasn't hate that burned in his eyes, Cian detected, but something else. Determination. Righteousness, perhaps? "What? Shocked that I would address you by your rightful epithet, O Lord of the Dead? I have no love for Fae, but I do honor them and your abode." He grunted and sheathed his scabbard. "A precaution, nothing more. I have no need to redraw it if I am given no cause do to so."

Spike stepped back, as Cian stepped forward. Confused. "What are you playing at, Slayer?"

The long haired knight ignored his nemesis. Anwyn eyed him with deep interest. "These miscreants know not what they do, guardian. I seek the Chalice for no ill end, but to prevent bloodshed that would not merely uproot the mortal realm, but yours as well. I work alongside devils, but it is the provenance of the Goddess I seek." He pressed his hand against his chest. "Hand not the Chalice to these curs, but allow me to take it under my protection so that disaster might yet be staved!"

Cian glanced over at Spike, uncertain, and terrified of letting it show on his face. "Lord of the Dead, he is not to be trusted. He works with an organization run by wicked men."

Slayer's nostrils flared. "Dear lad, were you and I know brothers in arms, working for the same cause? That demon, Rage...he handled you much too harshly. Had I been there to take you under my wing instead..."

"Enough," Anwyn said, his voice booming like thunder. His dogs fell to their stomachs, bowing before him, and then vanishing into smoky vapor. "It is clear to me your hearts burn for the treasure of distant Aethrin." He laughed, hollowly. "Ah, if only you mortals knew the truth of your so-called mother, and of the gifts she granted you! Fight me, dragon kin. Whomever stands shall have your Mother's keepsake."

Slayer nodded, with a cunning smile, and detached his scabbard from his belt, tossing it aside. "Long have I yearned to grapple with a god. Fitting for a hero such as I!"

Cian gritted his teeth. "You idiot! The only weapon that would have worked on him!"

Anywyn laughed, giving Cian a cold and arrogant look. "Oh, we need an opponent for you, sweet Faeblade, don't we? Ah, why not someone you're intimately familiar with?" The tall being clenched his fist, like he was grabbing at the air, and then abruptly yanked it away.

Cian rose, bucking back, as if Anywyn had caught him by the shirt collar. He gasped.

"Cian!" Spike screamed. He drew forward, but found himself thrown back by am explosive light. Cool, blue flames rose up from the ground (not unlike Vahni Rage's little exit stunt from the other night). They gave no heat, but Spike felt his hand sting as it drew closer to the tall blaze. It acted as a veil, through which he could see Cian, floating midair, and Slayer, partitioned by another line of fire. Spike thought briefly of absorbing the flames (fire was energy, right?) but found his glyoh non-reactive. This was something else. As Cian had said, there exited magick older than magick.

"Do not interfere, pretty one!" Anywyn laughed. "What is a fight without an audience, after all?"

Something pulled itself from Cian. Spike thought it was another one of his mirage doubles. He wasn't entirely incorrect. The shadowy, featureless mass formed itself into a muscular man, much like him, but with dark hair instead of red. He wore a subtle beard, and a coating of hair ran the length of his naked torso (clad only by a mantle of wolf pelt). If Spike weren't so freaked out, he might have found himself aroused.

Red, glowing eyes--the signature of Cian's blood frenzy--stared at the Faeblood Brawler.

"I have drawn out the reflection of the Hound of Cullen that lurks within you," Anwyn explained, from behind his curtain of blue fire. "Best him...or die. Ah, but why that look upon your handsome countenance, distant kin? Have you not been wrestling this demon your whole life? Now, you can do in actuality!"

Cian stepped back. Afraid. Spike hadn't seen him afraid before (most insultingly, not even during their match). The Shade of Cu-Cullen, in lockstep, moved forward, mirroring him. Cian spat, then charged forward, grappling his dark half in a test of strength. Behind them, Anywyn and Slayer sparred, more strikes and blows than connected combat.

All Spike could do was watch. He swallowed. His knuckles turned white from clenching them so tightly. "Come on, Cian..."

Guttural roars poured from bestial Cian and Cullen, tumbling to the ground, bodies wrenched up in each other. Grappling turned into reversal, a tangle of muscles and limbs, and then, suddenly, both men were on their feet again.

"Is it wrong that I think this is really hot?" Spike said.

"YES!" Cian gasped, spitting blood from a cut in his lip onto the ground. In front of him, Cullen--uninjured--did the same.

Spike's eyebrows arched at that.

Cian sucked his teeth and switched up his strategy, taking a cue from Anywyn and Slayer's match and going for strike. The Shade, apparently, had the same idea. Their fists collided, painfully.

"Agghh," Cian cried out, wringing his hand. Cullen impassively did the same. "Ugh, he's too strong. I mean, he's me. Of course he's strong. "I'm fighting him with everything I got, Spike. Why isn't this working!?" Cian shouted and took a wide stance, calling upon all his power. He blinked. Nothing happened. "No illusions? No frenzy?"

In front of him, Cullen radiated with an emerald glow.

"You're...my power?" Cian stepped back, afraid. Cullen, stepped forward, emboldened. "No...you're all I have."

Spike closed his eyed and muttered a quiet prayer to the Goddess, something he hadn't done in quite awhile. "You can do it, Cian. I believe in you!"

"That makes one of us," Cian spat, dodging Cullen as he went for a blow. And then another. He was relentless. Cian was on the backfoot now, just trying to prevent the mad dog from grabbing onto him. If this was the embodiment of his blood frenzy, then it wouldn't stop til it snapped his neck. 

"You!" Cian shouted, tears in his eyes. With voice cracking, he addressed the Shade like it was an illness he couldn't shake. "You've been a curse on me my whole damn life! The only time you've ever helped is when I'm trying to protect the people I..."

The emerald glow abruptly faded. The Shade stood. It did not go for the attack.

Cian observed it, distracted only the grunts and shouts from the duel behind him. "What?" He thought of going for a takedown, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, the Shade's eyes flickered red again at the prospect.

Spike felt like he was on the verge of a panic attack...and he desperately needed to use the restroom besides. "Cian, whatever you're doing..."

"Ugh!" Cian shouted, going for the full assault. Cullen met him straight on. Once again, they were locked up.

"Never mind," Spike sighed.

Cian couldn't hear him, anyway. He was singularly focused on his opponent. The only opponent that ever mattered. He saw himself in the ruby mirror of the Shade's burning eyes. 

"I hated you," Cian seethed. If he broke his arms trying to beat this thing, so be. "People told me I was doomed. Damned. Unworthy. Weak. You were always there to put them in their place." Tears rained from his eyes. "And...it was never satisfying, was it? What's the point of becoming champion if I still feel like everyone hates me." He sniffed. Still, he did not give up. "I'm so ashamed. I can't even beat you.

"Maybe I should throw this match. Let Spike get out with the Chalice. He's always tried to be nice to me." He sighed, buckling under his opponent's pressure. "Spike, I guess if I am gonna die, you should know...I always...uh...sorta' thought you were cute."

Feeling like he was about to be sick now, Spike didn't say anything to this...rather abrupt revelation. He felt his heart beat faster, however. Just as his brain began processing this information, the battle changed once more.

The Shade let go. Arms at its side, it watched Cian, gasping, and clothing soaked full with sweat.

"Stopped again?" Cian said.

The Shade just stared.

Cian looked over at Spike. "Shade, I need my power back. I need it to keep everyone safe."

To his surprise then, the Shade kneeled before him.

Though Spike and Cian couldn't see it (nor could Slayer, who had been tossed cleanly over Anywyn's shoulder, the Lord of the Dead turned his head slightly to the side, and smiled.

Cian swallowed. He stepped forward, without harmful intent. The Shade didn't move. "Oh wait, this is like a metaphor thing, isn't it? Of course, you're me!" Had Cian any breath left, he might have laughed. "Well, not exactly me." 

He fell to his knees, mirroring his Shade, instead of the Shade of Cu Cullen mirroring him. After a moment of decomposition, Cian forced the words out.

"I'm so tired, boyo," Cian said. "Aren't you? It's so funny, isn't it? Why do I keep feeling like I'm weak, or a sissy? I'm strong as hell. We are. And yeah...I guess I've been afraid of who I am." He glanced over at Spike. Goddess, he really was a pretty man, wasn't he? Not just him, of course. He wasn't the first one who had stirred Cian's heart. Hell, he was surrounded by hunks, and every time he felt that feeling, the shame followed. He once thought of that hate as a shield, but it was really a dagger, aimed squarely at his own heart.

Time to toss it aside. Or...at the very least, start to pull it out.

"Whatever," Cian laughed, playfully. "Hey, you. Shadow...ancestor...whoever the hell you are. I am so damn proud of the person I am now. And if you don't like it, you can kiss my fat arse..."

Then, the Shade smiled.

So did Spike.

Cian's eyed widened. "Oh, you do like it? Heh. Well, of course you do. You're me." He swallowed, and moved forward. "No fighting you anymore, got it?"

Cian grabbed the Shade around the neck, just the same as going for a lockup. The Shade did the same to him. Only, instead or a struggle, their faces met. Cian kissed the shadow of the warrior god.

All of this, as Spike looked on. He bit his lip. "I...have the weirdest boner..."

When he looked up, as did Cian, the Shade was gone. Cian glowed with a soft, green light.

The fire faded, giving Spike and Cian a clear view into the other makeshift arena. Slayer lay, clutching his side, blood streaming down his face. It was obvious he had lost.

"Ah, well done!" Anywyn applauded Cian, silently. He drew close to him. "I was afraid I'd have to kill you. Your friend here proved more trouble than he's worth..."

Still rocked from what had just happened, and with a whole new host of emotions with which to contend, Cian barely took note of the Shining Lord, until a blur of motion behind him drew his eye towards Slayer.

The knight had grabbed the blade, and withdrew it in a swift motion. He ran towards Anywyn, with a devilish fury. "I cannot allow another war to take everything away from me again! I will CUT ANY GOD DOWN, IF I MUST!"

Anwyn looked over his shoulder at the last moment, and went to snap his fingers. He did. Nothing happened.

Cian would explain to Spike later that the blade, whatever its power, had managed to stop even the Lord of the Dead's magick. Before the sword cut could into Anywyn's chest, Cian--with a speed that Spike had never seen before--threw himself forward.

He caught the blade between both hands. Slayer, shocked, look up...into his glowing red eyes.

"SLAYER!" Cian snarled.

Spike fell backwards. "The...Blood Frenzy!"

Only this time, Cian smiled. "Under CONTROL," he shouted, triumphantly. With a grunt, he ripped the sword from Slayer's grip and tossed it aside as if it weighed nothing.

Anywyn, duly impressed, smiled. "Oh, now that was quite well done."

Slayer fell onto his knees, in a pitiful, begging gesture. Cian was not so merciful. He grabbed the prettyboy knight by the hair, yanked him onto his feet, and shoved him in-between his massive legs.

Is he gonna snap his neck between his thighs? Spike thought. Ugh, Slayer, you lucky bastard...

"I am a warrior of the Celts. Cian Enbarr. The Faeblood Brawler." Cian hoisted Slayer up, onto his shoulders.

Slayer squeaked. "Please please please noooo..."

"And you're FUCKED."

SLAM!

Spike hadn't seen a power bomb that devastating in quite some time. He winced, looking away from Cian's favorite power finisher. 

Slayer, lay on the ground, twitching like a fly freshly swatted.

Thank goodness for Spike's short-lived aversion to violence. His eyes fell upon the doorway to daylight, sunny Glastonbury on the other side of the castle archway. It was fading, becoming ghostly and transparent.

"C-c-cian," Spike stuttered, panicking, "the portal!"

Anywyn nodded, mischieviously, giving the broken Slayer a brief, disgusted glance. He held his hound out to panting Cian, his eyes returned to normal. The beautiful, green Chalice re-appeared in the Lord's palm.

"You mortals do so amuse me," Anywyn. "Take it, and make haste."

Awkwardly, Cian nodded and snatched the Chalice from Anywyn's hands. "What about him?"

Slayer's eyelids flitted. "...A fair and strapping squire, aren't you..." he mumbled in his KO daze. "And such a bountiful bosom! Fie, thou do not skippeth chest day..."

"He will be dealt with," Anywyn said, neutrally. 

Cian sighed. "I don't have much leverage here, I know, and I feel like I've exhausted my goodwill but...please. Don't kill him."

"Worry not, kindred," Anywyn said, with a curt bow of the head. "We have...other punishments."

Spike snatched Cian's arm and yanked him in the direction of the fading portal. "Yep, good enough, bye fairy-man!"

Without turning back for one last, dangerous look of the Faewilds, Cian and Spike walked from moonlight to daylight, back in the fresh breeze of Glastonbury. They let out a simultaneous, prolonged sigh of relief.

Spike was the first to peer over his shoulder. Nothing but the blue sky and hills below lay at the other end of the small, ruined chamber. "Did we do it?"

Cian checked his watch. "We left four hours ago, but yes."

"Four hours!" Spike exclaimed. "How?"

"Time works differently over there," Cian shrugged. He looked down at the green goblet clenched in his fist, remembering how close they'd come to failure. "Slayer. That book of his. And the sword. Where did he get those..."

"NEVER MIND THAT!" Spike shouted joyously, throwing his arms Cian and hugging him clise. "We fuckin' did it! And I think you had a serious moment there, dude!"

Cian shyly removed himself from Spike's grip. Blushing, he was happy to take the credit. "I did, eh? I...I feel so...I don't know. New?"

"You did great," Spike said. "I'm really proud of you."

"Hey, well...you really helped me too." Cian took a shy step forward and scratched his neck. He held his hand out. "Tag?"

Spike tapped it. "Tag." He looked into Cian's eyes. Usually they were always narrowed like a knife tip towards him, so he never realized how beautiful, and deep green they were. 

And, before Spike or Cian knew what was happening...

Cian's kiss was uncertain, clumsy. Spike nevertheless went along with it, righting the course, and then letting go just as quickly as they had found themselves caught up in the moment.

Faces red, and unsure of what had just occurred, they turned away from each other.

"Cian..."

"Spike..."

"Gentleman."

The two fighter's heads whipped towards the looming, scowling presence towering above them. Muscular arms folded across (his equally muscular) chest, Joseph stared death into Cian and Spike.

My first kiss might be my last, Cian thought, gulping.

Spike had never realized just how terrifying White Tiger, the GSA Champion, could truly be.

The warrior of justice cracked his knuckles, "I will you both just one question," he said, coldly. "Who wants to be punished first?

Next Chapter!

Slaying Slayer BONUS - Laying Slayer

The spellbreaking gym in Sydney's seedy and vibrant King's Cross district was eerily quiet for a Wednesday night. It had been a few days since Rex had gone up against Slayer St. George in a creepy battle held in Deadboy Daemian's private arena (torture chamber). Rex was just trying to maximize the last of his days spent in Sydney.

He was also, much to his bemusement, horny as hell. The men in this country are too hot. There must be something in the water. Or it's all the leg sports. Plus, a lot of them have that spooky goth thing going on. 

As a light magi, many of the dark mages around Sydney, the 'capital of dark magic' were diamterically opposed to Rex's element. That made him want them all the more. I just love a bad boy who likes to bully me...

After bench spotting the only other attendee, a rather hunky and friendly red demon with a stringer tank and mouth-watering pectorals, Rex found himself on the pec deck, pushing hard. The demon had been soul bounded to the gym manager (possibly lover), and had trusted Rex to his own devices.

"Phew!" Rex said as he let the barbell slide back into the rack. He sat up, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, admiring the pump's effect on his pectorals. Rex made a habit of working out shirtless when he could get away it, and tonight he was very pleased at his progress. The tits looked good. The glistening sweat from light Australian humidity (it was spring) looked good on him.

As Rex smiled somewhat absent minded at his musculature, even flexing his biceps a little for show, his eyes caught the motion of the door swing open. A handsome, tall man walked in. With his confident gait, tight lycra workout gear (Rex thought it almost resembled chain mail) the long haired gentleman struck Rex as both attractive and...familiar.    

"Hm?" The handsome, dreamy eyed Welshman glanced over at Rex. He grimaced. "Ye gods..."

"Oh," Rex frowned, crossing his arms as he locked eyes with Slayer St. George, his most recent challenge. "Hey...Slayer." He bit his lip. This was awkward. Rex was affable and friendly as they came, but that Slayer was a bit on the intense side.

The 'knight' grunted, dropping his green and white gear bag to the gym floor. "You could at least do me the dignity of addressing me by my name, knave."

"Geez, okay!" Rex winced. "Slayer." He looked him up and down. Even clothed, his muscles and athletic were noteworthy. Especially in that tight lycra. Rex could only imagine what a chivalrous stud like that looked like in a singlet.

In any case, there was nothing stopping the 'Welsh Wyvern' from working out, and Rex didn't hold anything against him. He turned to re rack his weight, catching notice that Slayer was giving him a 'look. "Didn't think I was the only one who liked working out so late at night, Slayer."

"This is a Firebird affiliated gym," Slayer huffed, "I possess the keys. Had I the mind of a miscreant, I may very well trap you in with me and take sweet vengeance." He flipped his hair, still lush and voluminous despite the unfortunate and unintended trim. "And...the name is Arthur. Artie if you want me to be unkindly to you."

"Unkindly?" Rex said, flirtatious, raising and eyebrow. Working out always put him in a mood. Should he...covort with the enemy though? Even though he wasn't signed to the GSA, those boys were still closely affiliated. He liked those hunks Sailorboy and Icewolf. 

Then again, it had been awhile since Rex had some fun with a muscle stud, and this Slayer was really easy on the eyes. He parted his legs, intentionally showing off his bulge in his tight work out shorts. 

Rex stretched, yawning, subtly flexing his triceps. "Too bad. I was hoping for a hot Aussie hunk to come work out with me."

"Hm. Well, is this province not called Neo South Wales? I am from the genuine article. The original Wales."

"...Was that you trying to be funny? Whatever. Hmmm. But how sweet is this vengeance of yours, my knight in shining armor?" He lowered his arms and gave Slayer the 'look', the one that any man whose been with men knows to signal. 

Slayer's mouth twitched. "Hng!?" Either he got the message, or he was going to be a coy jerk about it. "It can be...quite sugared indeed," he said. He leaned his hands against Rex's bench. "I must admit, my thoughts have turned to your countenance these past three days. You proved your strength to me."

"I think you enjoyed being humbled," Rex laughed. "The hair looks nice, by the way."

"It is...a bit modern for my liking." Slayer brushed it away. Rex found his expressions, when he wasn't trying to be a jerk, that is, were adorable. "Humility is part of chivalry, I suppose, but so is the admiration of beauty. And I quite admire your muscles. Your comely visage." 

Rex stood up. "You...use a lot of big words," he said, before leaning in and kissing Slayer on the mouth. 

The knight made a small noise. He closed his eyes, soaking in the power of Rex's kiss, before returning the gesture. Unlike the fight and test of strength from back during their bout, they held each other gently, here. Hands slid up musclular backs, and down thighs, a quiet exploration of each other's bodies.

"My words are not the only thing you might find formidable, Sir Rex," Slayer said. He took Rex's hands and moved them down his hard core, towards the front of his pants. "If you would care to explore."

Rex tried to disguise his eager, contented sigh, but he figured they were well past that point. "Oh, I think I would," he said, getting to his knees. "And I don't hate being called Sir." He began to mouth the front of Slayer's bulge.

The knight leaned his head back and sighed. "Nor I. Shall I lock this door? Or are you, perhaps, afraid to be alone with me, Sir Rex?"

"I've been thinking about you since our match," Rex said, continuing his labor. He'd gotten Slayer hard, and judging from the tent in his pants (almost comical in how large it was), he was well on his way to tangling with a new dragon.

The Welsh knight laughed, pushing Rex's head and mouth away, albeit playfully. "Finish your set, knave," he said, pointing to the bench. "Let me watch. I'll spot you."

Something about working out harder for Slayer titilated the light magi, who gladly laid back down on the bench. Slayer made no subtly about draping his ample bulge across Rex's face as he lifted harder, grunting, straining all his muscles against the weight.

"5...6...very good. One more. Good boy."

The praise, as well as the surge of testosterone, got Rex rock hard. With all his might, he completed his set, grunting on the decline. Slayer helped him guide the bar bell back to its rack.

"Such might," Slayer proudly said. He leaned over, tickling Rex with his hair, and planted another kiss on his mouth. His hands travelled to Rex's pecs, fondling them, massaging them, before Slayer's fingers teased Rex's hard nips.

"Fuck," Rex moaned. 

Slayer was slow and certain in all of his movements. His hands travelled from Rex's chest, down to his hard legs. "The thighs of Hercules," Slayer observed. At this point, he was practically crawling on top of Rex's body. "Woe for you, it was not a jest when I declared revenge. Turnabout is fair play, and all."

Slayer began to mouth and lick the sweat off Rex's chest, tongue spiralling around his nipples.

"Oh..." Rex moaned, going mad with the sensation. "Oh fffffuck. This is good revenge." He felt himself precum in his pants.

Slayer saw the result of his actions, smirking cockily at the puddle forming at the tip of Rex's tent. "Even your sweat is sweet," Slayer said. He moved his mouth towards Rex's musky bulge and licked the bead of precum off. "And this nectar is even sweeter. I knew you were delicious."

"Starting to talk like Daemian," Rex laughed.

"Oh, do not dare speak that devil's name aloud."

"Why not? Not done for a threesome, Arthur?" Rex winked.

"You scamp," Slayer laughed, necking Rex, using his tongue as expertly as he wrestled. "I shall punish you thusly for that."

Rex's eyes rolled back into his head. "Damn good punishment too." Rex couldn't resist any more, however. He was hungry. He sat up, tugging Slayer's lycra pants down. He was hard enough. 

"I would like to see what kind of sword you have in that scabbard," Rex said, as he revealed his opponent's weapon of choice. He blushed. "Oh...oh, damn."

Rex had seen some big ones in his time. Slayer wasn't so much girthy, but long, just to the point where it was almost obscene. It was a beautiful cock. Ten inches or more. Rex gulped, slightly intimidated. 

Slayer wasn't arrogant about his equipment. He smiled, almost innocent (which, to Rex, was somehow hotter). "I see you have unleased Excalibur," Slayer said, gently guiding Rex's face to his intended target. "Now you must prove your worth, or be cut down like a dog."

"Damn," Rex said, maintaining eye contact as he began to slowly lick up the head and the shaft. "Excalibur, huh? A legendary and mighty sword."

"Only those who can fit their mouth around it entire are deemed truly worthy. Now, polish my blade."

Rex found the mass of Slayer's priceless sword enter him. Indeed, a formidable weapon, it cut to the back of his throat. Rex was good, but even he was a bit out of his depth. His reflexes took over, and Slayer's blade was unsheathed again.

"Fuck," Rex gasped. He didn't get much of a breath, however, before Slayer stabbed again.

"Now, now. One more brave attempt. Ah...there. Slowly. Good, squire. You will make a great knight, once you learn to polish your master's blade."

Rex's eyes rolled back into his head anew, and he felt another drop leak from his shorts. Something about his mouth and throat being 'conquered' by this studly warrior made him go crazy. Still, anatomy took hold. He gagged again. Slayer, the gentleman, removed himself without protest.

"I tried," Rex said, somewhat guilty. He smiled up.

"Heh. A valiant effort." Slayer tapped the side of Rex's cheek, playfully, with the weapon that had conquered his opponent. "You may not be the knight I'm looking for, but you are the man I would like right now." He held Rex's head and tugged up, putting him back on his feet. Another assuring kiss. 

Lost in passion, Rex found himself turned around--man-handled by his former opponent. "Look at yourself and flex for me," Slayer commanded. "I love to watch a man admire their own beauty."

Rex did as he was told, slowly raising arm and making his biceps peak. Glistening in the gym light, like polished stones, they were enough to illicit a small moan from the observer. 

"I do like admiring it," Rex said, turned on by the sight of his own perfection.

"Kiss it."

Rex did as told. He closed his eyed and kissed his muscles, just as passionately as he had kissed Slayer.

The knight did Rex the honors of pulling down on his own pants. As Rex flexed for his admirer, Slayer put his hands around his waist, breathed heavily, and began to pressed and push his manhood against Rex's muscular backside. As Rex flexed, he was rewarded with another pleasure-inducing kiss, or a gentle bite to the back of the neck. Slayer drove him wild. A thread of milky pre-cum forced its way out of Rex and onto the weights in front of them.

"Oops. We'll have to clean those later."

"We will mark this gym, boy. You and I."

"Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah we will. Unnnghhh..."

Again, Slayer took charge. He maneuverd Rex onto the bench, but on his back.

"You gonna fuck me?" Rex said, raising his legs up. "You wanna?"

"Not so crude, lover. Like the Greek masters for their young warriors, I would like to put those muscular thighs of yours to use."

"Oh fuck. Oh yeah, right on the bench."

"Let us anoint it with a warrior's blessing."

Slayer leaned over and placed his iron-hard sword between Rex's muscular thighs. He pushed inward, sliding his cock under Rex's own, modest length. He pushed and thrusted slowly, letting Rex feel his power.

Rex had never had sex like this before, but it felt amazing. Slayer, in any case, seemed to be going wild. Combined with his sweat, and Slayer precumming loads, it was the perfect lubricant. It was both primal and elegant, this rutting.

Plus, Rex didn't have to do any work.

"Oh, that Excalibur does feel good," he moand.

"No man nor woman can resist it," Slayer said, mid ecstasy, increasing the speed of his thrusting. "I think I shall cut you down here and revenge be mine. Death for you, knave...but only the little one."

How was this possible? Rex had indeed learned a new technique from his opponent...and it was about to pay off. Slayer was adept in his sword play, alternating between his own pleasure, embedding himself in Rex's thighs, and then 'stabbing' at his own shaft, tip meeting tip. His cock was dominant. Rex's was happy to lose.

"Your cock is vanquished," Slayer grunted.

Unable to control his voice against his rising orgasm, Rex cried out. "Oh fuck...it's gonna be big." The build up. Then, the dams burst. "Oh, Slayer. OH FUCCCK."

A jet-blast of cum shot out all over Slayer's chest, marking him perfectly. Then more. Slayer didn't stop, though.

"Yes, oil my blade with your manhood. Good boy." He leaned back, looking like a hero ascending skyway. "Sorry to the gym owners. This bench is mine. Gah!!!"

A blast of white liquid sprouted and blossomed from out Rex's thighs, running across his muscles, and soaking over the bench. Shocked, he bit his tongue from speaking aloud as he watched Slayer's cum spill over the side of the cusion, onto the floor.

Rex covered his mouth. Post-orgam clarity returned. "Damn!"

"Heh." Slayer looked away, sheepishly. "A kiss." He kissed him. "That was good."

Rex sighed, still unable to believe what had happened. "You...are intense and kind of romantic."

"And what knight would I be if I wasn't?" Slayer said. He looked down, at their mutual mess, and winced. "I shall clean this disaster of ours. Well done."

"Mmm. Will I see you again?"

"When we cross paths on the battlefield, I will enjoy striking you down, beautiful one."

"So mean!" Rex pouted.

"Not so." Slayer laughed. "I would like to hold you close, in the showers. And then, come back with me to the hotel. We can continue our swordplay there..."

Rex sighed, pleased with everything. "Remind me to send Deadboy a gift basket."

The End

Deadboy's Horror Land: Slaying Slayer

 *thunder claps*

A dark shape cuts through the green mist over Sydney harbor. A ghoulish clown face stands as the opening gate for Horror Land, a theme park built beneath the Harbor Bridge. We travel through the gate's fanged, open mouth into the park interior, a Gothic spectacular of freakish delights. Ceramic Jack-O-Lanterns illuminate the twisting paths in strange colors. Spiderwebs hang between the Victorian street lamps. We are flanked by terrifying rides with names like the Hell Blender, The Scary-Go-Round, the Terror Wheel. Costumed monsters, vampires, zombies, and mutated clowns laugh sinisterly, chasing young park goers towards the exits. 

The bloody crown jewel in Horror Land: Gravesend Manor, the largest haunted house dark-ride in the world. At the top most tower, crooked like a curled up corpse of a huntsman spider, maniacal laughter peels out from the open window.

Inside, a cozy but creepy hovel. Heavy metal band posters line the walls, including goth horror punk group 'Fetus of God'. Curled up in a beanbag chair, right next to an esky fill of IPAs, our master of 'scare-a-monies' curls up with a lurid horror comic book. Wearing a cut-off crop top revealing his six pack abs, and torn, black jeans held together with safety pins, Deadboy Daemian turns the page, yawns, and looks up.

Deadboy: Oh! Didn't see ya there, mate. Welcome to my Horror Land! Hahahahaha! And I got another chilling, thrilling, and cum-spilling tale for you tonight, kiddies! I don't know about you, but I'm bored with those GSA cunts. So self-righteous! Blegh. So today's treat, or trick, focuses on their rivals, and my personal favorites, Firebird! Specifically, that 'paragon of virtue' Slayer St. George.

I decided to play a little game with ol' Slayer and that tasty little biscuit, Rexford. Gave them fake invitations to a match right downstairs in my personal torture chamber! I think it will be fun to see them tear each other apart, won't it?

*a door creeks opens* *Daemian grins, sinisterly*

Deadboy: Hehehe. Right on fuckin' time. Well, follow me, kiddies--this is gonna be a real bloody good match! Hahahahaha!

-----

"He..hello?"

Rexford Holt tugged nervously on his signature t-shirt, bearing the same logo as his trunks beneath. Bare legged and booted up for the match he'd been promised in this most unusual venue, Rex bit his lip and crept into the dingy, cobweb filled chamber.

The great wooden door behind him slammed shut.

Rexford sighed. "Keep calm," he told himself. "Real heroes don't fear the unknown!"

No sooner had he said that, than the candelabras and torches in the room spontaneously lit up, illuminating the gothic chamber. Rex looked around the room. Cages. An iron maiden. Various torture implements. A sling. A wall full of whips and other obscene devices. And among all of them, at the center point of the room, a horror-themed wrestling ring, lined with chains instead of ropes, and bearing several dubious stains on its moldy canvas. 

Rex eyed the lit jack-o-lantern on the dusty ringside table, and stepped into the arena. Hesitantly, he removed his shirt, showing off his sculpted muscles to...well, no one.

Maybe the ghosts, Rexford thought, trying to calm himself down. But he jumped, on instinct, as the opposite door swing open. Lightning flashed, illuminating the tall, statuesque silhouette.

Rexford narrowed his eyes. "You!"

Through the gloom and mist, the chain-mail wearing, handsome knight strutted into the room. Slayer St. George, the 'Vanquisher', was confident, cocky, and...just a little bit annoyed. Still, the 'Welsh Wyvern' certainly fit the medieval scenery.

The stern, attractive baby face tossed back his long hair, sighed, and wiped his boots on the ring apron. "Hmph," he grunted, sizing up his opponent. "So, you're who I'm to face?"

Rexford crossed his arms and gave Slayer a cutting stare. "Slayer St. George! It really is an honor."

Flattery didn't work on the brutal Slayer, but it did make him ease up on the arrogance. "I see you're more noble than at first glance." He removed the chainmail and tossed it to the corner, revealing his toned, white chest. "Rexford Holt. A young upstart. I do not begrudge the challenge. A knight must have their journey, and you do cut the figure of a hero. Still, I shan't go easy on you, whelp." 

Slayer flexed his muscles. They were knotted, round, with veiny biceps that protruded. Solid rock. Coupled with the long hair (though Slayer was won't to change up his look often) he looked like the cover of a Romance novel, come to life.

Even Rex was stunned. "Wow..."

Slayer grinned. "I see you are a man of good taste. Well, perhaps 'man' is generous." Slayer circled the ring, compelling Rex to do the same. "'Boy' is a more fitting moniker for you, child. And I do so love to discipline little whelps who need to be reminded of their place."

"Whatever," Rex spat back, rolling his eyes. "Speaking of places...this doesn't look like the sort of venue I fight in."

Slayer nodded, inadvertently striking a heroic pose as they pondered the predicament. "Indeed. 'Tis strange. Though I admire the scenery--reminds me of my homeland. Yes, I suspect the mastermind behind this ill-gotten match is close at hand." Slayer looked to the shadowy corner of the room. "Am I correct, knave? SHOW THYSELF!"

"Hehehehe"

A peel of wicked laughter followed the white, handsome spellbreaker who walked out of the sahdows. "Deadboy" Daemian Gravesend gave Slayer and Rex a dramatic bow. "High distinctions, mate. You figured out me devious plan."

Slayer growled. "YOU! I knew you were behind this, Gravesend!" He gestured to the deadly objects around the room. "Do you expect a torture match? Or a death match. You shan't have it! I fight cleanly, under the banner of chival--"

"Blah, blah, blah!" Damian spat, sticking out his (pierced) tongue. "This is what's so boring about you, Slayer. You're too much of a goodie-two-shoes. I think you'd be a lot more interesting if you were...well....badder."

Slayer reeled back, hand (almost effeminately) to their chest. "How DARE! I would never stoop so low as to your...your scurrilous ways!" He pointed to his opponent, Rex, hopping up and down on the canvas, eager to scrap. "I shall indeed defeat this challenger. But it shall be with honor and dign--"

Mid-eyeroll, Daemian cut him off and evaporated into a shadowy mist.

Rexford and Slayer looked around, wildly, taking on a grappler's stance in anticipation of their tricksy host's tactics.

Slayer, however, forgot to account for his own shadow. A long hand, with black-painted nails, reached out from the darkness and grabbed Slater's ankle, pulling him down to the canvas.

"OOF!"

Deadboy jumped out of Slayer's shadow like a feral cat, leaving Rex aghast. The younger fighter went to assist his opponent, but Deadboy, who had mounted Slayer like a hungry predator, froze him with his stare.

Wickedly smiling deadboy put his finger to his lips. "Shhhh..." he said, before lowering his head in to his startled victim. "Give your dark maiden a kiss, o' brave knight!"

Slayer went to protest, or even retch, but sound found their mouth covered by Deadboy's own, prying, devious lips and tongue. 

"Mmfff!" Slayer choked, finding Deadboy's snaky tongue invading his throat.

Rex winced. "Ugh, that's disgusting." This is definitely not what he came here for!

Then, the air in the room grew colder. Deadboy looked up at Rex, without removing his violating mouth. His irises grew pure black, demonic. 

Suddenly, Slayer's body began to thrash, and his protest moaning grew louder.

"MmmfMMMMMMNNNG!!!"

Rex looked down in horror, watching a trickle of black escape the sides of Slayer's mouth. He had heard about Deadboy's 'evil blood' before! It was a vile secretion he poured into his opponent's mouths, radically altering their mind, corrupting their very soul. It was a humiliating and disgusting tactic, often making viewer's stomachs turn at the sight (though, apparently, it tasted like cherry cola...)

Deadboy reared back up, the oily-black ooze trickling from his neck onto his pale chest. He wiped his mouth, victoriously, and got up from Slayer. "There now," he laughed. "Feelin'...better now, Sexy Slayer?"

Rex braced himself against the ropes, watching in shock and awe as Slayer stumbled, zombie-like, onto their feet. Their long hair hung over their body, and they shambled around like a drunkard. Rex knew he could go for a dirty move, but that wouldn't be fair. 

Then, Slayer tossed back their luscious mane, revealing that their eyes had gone solid black, just like Deadboy's. They'd been cursed. The same black saliva spilled forth from their hanging mouth. They were a man changed.

"What's wrong?" Slayer, in a more sinister tone, asked his opponent as Daemian slunk off into the shadows. "ARE YOU SCARED, CHILD?"

Rex blinked. Damian, putting his feet up on the ring table, pointed to the bell, making it ring. "Have a fun fight, kiddies! Hahahaha!"

Slayer roared like a fiend, diving in for the lockup. Rex, not about to be intimidated by the strange turn of events, clamped down on their neck and bicep. Oh, Slayer was a strong one alright. Rex had seen his matches before. Not only was he a skilled combatant, but he could even turn his arm into a fire-breathing dragon's head too! No telling what was to happen now that he'd been cursed by Deadboy's 'evil blood' spell.

"Too easy," Slayer snarled, pulling Deadboy in tightly to his chest. He squeezed down tight. "Your ribs are forfeit, knave!"

Rex reared his head back in anguish. "Aghh! Damn it." He struggled. Slayer had a tight grip. Those knight-like bracers on his arms certainly didn't help.

"I learned all of my techniques from torture chambers like these," Slayer said, haughtily. "Scream for me, whelp! Scream for your master."

Rex grit his teeth down and summoned his power, rendering himself momentarily invisible. It was enough to confuse the enchanted Slayer into dropping the hold.

By the ringside, Deadboy frowned. "Bugger..."

Rex re-reappeared, but Slater was ready. He grabbed Rex and put him into a wrist lock, stepping underneath him and turning it into a hammerlock instead, driving his arm halfway up his back.

"Shall I snap it off!" Slayer asked. "Your pain is exquisite."

Rex grimaced, and despite himself, let out a few strained tears. "N--never, you cosplaying Renaissance fair jerk!"

At the table, Deadboy grinned. "Come now. No tears. It's a waste of perfectly good suffering!"

"Indeed," Slayer leered, leaning in and licking the back of Rex's neck. "I can taste this one's fear, Master."

"Enough with the submission, Slay-boy," Daemian Gravesend commanded. "Entertain me, Knight!"

"As you wish, my liege," Slayer said, turning the hammerlock into a whip, throwing Rex against the ropes. "OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!"

WHAP!

Unable to control his trajectory, Rex's neck and poor throat collided right with Slayer's forarm, reinforced by his iron-bracer. The evil knight may as well have taken a metal baseball bat to his neck.

Rex lost consciousness, collapsing to the mat. 

"HAHAHA!!!" Daemian cackled from ringside. "This is exactly what I wanted. Make him suffer, Slayer! I want to see BLOOD!"

Rex groaned, trying to come to his senses. Slayer was all too happy to help him, however.

Cold, calculating, and callous, the bewitched knight kneeled down and grabbed Rex's head, lifting it up. "Still attached, I see. Perhaps I should fix that."

The Welsh Wyvern put Rex into a headlock, driving his face into his hard chest. With the pain in his neck, it was almost enough to force him into unconsciousness again.

"Ah, but no..." Slayer said, changing things up. He manoeuvred Rex's body into his, with Slayer wrapping one of his Rugby-wrought legs around Rex's, making him spread his legs for Daemian's delight. He dug his arm around Rex's armpit, and pulled back, forcing Rex into a sitting ab stretch.

"Just like a torture rack," Slayer said, nodding to the self-same implement positioned against the wall.

Daemian cocked his head in confusion. "Uh...mate, that's an entirely different wrestling move."

Rex grimaced. "Idiot."

"WHAT SAY YOU?" Slayer growled, pulling Rex apart harder.

Rex's eyes rolled into the back of his head with anguish. "Ugh..."

"Why don't you blink again, knave? It is useless. Your powers are futile." 

Rex fought against the submission, but the situation was starting to get more and more dire by the minute. 

And it just got worse. Daemian, whistling a jaunty tune, strutted over to the ring and tossed in--of all things--a screwdriver. "Whoops!" he said. "How'd the bloody hell did that get in there?" He lowered his stare and smiled, fang-like, at his hunky 'puppet'. "Slayer. You know what to do. Why not give Rexy there are a little scar?"

Blank faced and vacant, Slayer reached over with his hand and grabbed hold. "As you wish, master."

"N-no-" Rex said. He gulped. "Not my face!"

"Awww," Daemian cooed. "But it will be so much prettier this way....DRENCHED IN BLOOD! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!" He bit his lip. "Fuck, I'm so hard..."

But in Slayer going for the screwdriver, he opened himself up to one....rather unusual tactic that Rex's new friend at the GSA, Spike, had taught him.

When it doubt, go for the pecs.

Rex sighed. "I can't believe I'm doing this." Well, desperate times and all that...

CHOMP.

"AGH! You BRIGAND!"

Rex sunk his teeth into Slayer's meaty pectoral, causing him to lose his grip and giving Rex a way to wriggle free. Rex didn't let up there. He had read up on Slayer's history and had learned he was....well...sensitive in the chest department.

Rex maintained his mouth hold, licking Slayer's erect nips. "You like that, big guy?"

Deadboy: Oh, this is fuckin' hot! I think I might start strokin' it to this...

It wasn't enough to snap Slayer out of his dark enchantment, but it was enough to get Rex off his c case. Rex jumped up and spunk-kick Slayer, right in the side of the head, knocking him back into the chains.

Rex grabbed at this own wrist and stretched it, still sore from Slayer's punishment. He meant business now. "Looking good all wrapped up in those chains, Slayer."

The long-haired knight shook his head. "What?" He had fallen in a very precarious position, entangling his arms in the ringside chains.

Rex was happy to make it worse for him, forcing Slayer's arms apart, bound by the chain-link. Then, Rex went to work on his legs, splaying them wide and open, revealing Slayer's half-green and half-white, snug gear with the red wyven logo over the crotch. 

See, Rex had learned some pointers from his last opponent, Icewolf. Specifically, he had learned the science behind humiliation. Psychologically breaking down an opponent was often just as useful as physically breaking them. Besides, Rex needed to snap Slayer out of Deadboy's control. He didn't exactly like or admirer the knight, but he didn't deserve to be ensorcelled by a necromancing demon summoner (and an Australian necromancing demon summoner, on top of that..."

"Come on, Slayer!" Rex laughed, jumping into the ropes and building up the momentum. This is gonna hurt! "What's our sports' namesake? Every spell can be BROKEN!" 

Rex jumped into the air and turned his dive bomb into a drop kick, boots aimed squarely for Slayer's poor balls.

Rex: "Just like your nuts."

WHAM!

"GAAAAAAHHHHH!!" Slaye shrieked, high pitch.

Deadboy winced. "Fuckin' hell, mate," he said, before bursting off into laughter. "Fuck the screwdriver--that's hysterical!"

Rex shot Daemian a look. Fucker wasn't just a sadist, but a psychopath too. Still, he had to admit in taking a little bit of sadistic glee in watching this once-proud, cocky knight now forcing his arms out of his chains to cradle his sore nuts.

"Aghhhh," Slayer winced. Were those tears in his eyes too!

Daemian laughed. "Say 'owie!'"

Slayer was compelled by his master's spell. "Owwwie," he said. It was a laugh, coming from his noble and posh voice.  

Rex almost felt bad. Almost. "Only way to lift this curse off you is to snap you out of it. HARD." He leaned over and yoinked poor Slayer up by his hair, pulling it tight.

"You pissed me off," Rex snarled, wrapping his arms around Slayer's neck and driving him down into a snapmare.

Slayer tumbled forward, his neck and head damaged by the blow. His body bolted up, nerves rattled, and his eyes spun off into different directions.

Deadboy slapped the table, loving every second of the brutality. "Here!" he said, tossing a small plastic bottle into the ring. "You want to really drive the point home, mate?"  

The bottle rolled and hit Rex in the boot. "Hm?" He picked up, examining the contents. The liquid inside with a bright, sickly green. Next to the cartoonish ghost mascot on the front, 'spooky' font proclaimed: "Ectoplasmade--Chillingly Refreshing."

"It's the stickiest, nastiest stuff on Earth!" Daemian shouted from the safety of his table. He pantomimed pouring it onto his head.

Rex connected the dots, biting his lip. "Fuck that! I'm not that underhanded." He looked down at his opponent and kicked him in the back of the head...somewhat negating that point completely. "Sorry, just gotta do what I need to do!"

Slayer landed with his face full of canvas, with his hair spread across his broad back and muscular shoulders.

Rex looked down at his vulnerable opponent, then at the bottle in his hand. He sighed, popping the cap off. The scent of sugary lime filled the air, as did an incorporeal, green wraith that let out a long, "BooOooOOOo" as it escaped the bottle.

Rex poured the slimy, green substances into Slayer's long, well-maintained, beautiful hair. It congealed instantly, creating a slimy, sticky, gummy, gelatinous texture.

Wincing and getting onto his hands and knees, on all fours. He sniffed the air. A slimy, thickly coated lock of hair fell in front of his face, causing his eyes to widen with terror.

"N-n-no!" he said, his hands going through his sticky, matted mane. He winced. "No. NO! Not my beautiful hair!" He pulled back a long trail of slime, as Daemian giggled evilly.

Deadboy: This match is going way better than I thought!

Rex realized he was probably going to have to cut it out. He bit his lip, tossing the bottle out of the ring. "Hey, man. I'm sorry. I'm just trying to help!"

Slayer looked back. Covered in slime and with blood on his mind, the knight's eyes glowed violet and black. "YOU CURR!" he snarled. "I WILL REACH DOWN YOUR THROAT AND REMOVE YOUR ENTRAILS THROUGH YOUR MOUTH."

Rex stepped back, aghast. He pointed an accusatory finger at Daemian. "YOU DID THIS! How do I fix it?"

"Pain," Daemian said, putting his fingers together like a movie villain. "And humiliation. Or...you let Slayer rip you to shreds! I win either way."

Rex sucked his teeth. "Lesser of two evils it is, then," he said, blinking out of sight as Slayer went to grabbed his leg. "Sorry, Slayer. Looks like you gotta' be my plaything for a bit!"

Rex kicked his opponent down to the canvas, and wasted no time mounting him, just like Deadboy. Only, instead of a kiss, Rex went for a kiss-of-death. A tightly held, face-to-face sleeper choke.

"Like what Spike did to El Amante," Rex explained, as he placed his lips against Slayer's. He hoped he wouldn't indivertibly ingest some of Deadboy's evil serum. "Looks like it's the heroic knight who needs to be kissed in order to break the spell, this time."

Flex.

Rex gripped down, tightening his arms around Slayer's crrotid artery, blocking the bloodflow to his brain.

Slayer struggled. "No...no..."

But Rex didn't relent. "I gotta...put you out."

"...I give."

Rex looked down. Slayer's eyes were still black. He bit his lip."

"Sorry. But...no you don't."

Slayer began to panic, but Rex didn't let the hold tight. Instead, he showed mercy by compressing his muscles harder, hoping to put Slayer out faster.

"Sorry, Slayer. This brutal bedtime story is over for you."

Rex, the hero, looked down at his defeated opponent. Slayer's eyes had rolled into the back of his head...but they were white. No blackness remained.

Rex sighed, getting off of Slayer and standing tall. "Rest in peace," he said, striking his victory pose.

At the ringside table, Daemian's eyes also rolled back into his head...but for entirely different reasons. "Ffffuck," he moaned, bracing himself against the table. "That was...so HOT." He sighed, going for a box of tissues in one hand, and the bell with the other.

*Ring*

Rex was displeased. He walked away from his opponent, just as Daemian entered the ring, the squishy, half-rotten jack-o-lantern held tightly in his arms.

"Hm?" Rex looked back over his shoulder. "What are you..."

"The bloody cherry on top of the shit sundae," Daemian laughed, tongue lolling out of his head. "Happy Halloween...sucker."

PLUNK!

Propped up against the corner of the post, Slayer slumped to one side, a nasty, squishy jack-o-lantern now covering his head. Its juices, along with the slimy drink, ran down his chest as his body still twitched from Rex's KO. It was humiliating, gross, and pathetic. The once might hero, vanquisher of evil, covered in grime and wearing a goofy, carved pumpkin on his head. Not to mention all the hair maintenance he would have to do after...

In other words, Daemian Gravesend had gotten exactly what he wanted out of Rex and Slayer. "HAHAHA! Well d-"

Deadboy didn't finish his victory speech. Instead, he found himself grabbed by the scruff of his neck by the slightly smaller, but no less intimidating, Rexford Holt.

"Fix him." the Light magi commanded. Het let Deadboy go. "Or, I'll come back with the GSA."

"Grrr." Deadboy brushed his shoulders off, watching as Rexford exited his ring. The former champion of the GSA knew he could snap Rex's neck like a twig if he wanted to, but he would let him live...for now. "Fine. I will let him go."

With a snap of his fingers, Daemian summoned the door open, letting Rexford Holt--with a very sore neck--free. The young fighter grabbed his shirt, gave Deadboy one last, withering look, before vanishing into the green mists of the night.

Alone with his 'prize', Daemian turned and salivated over Slayer's pathetic, twitching body in the corner of Deadboy's torture ring. "I promised the little cunt I'd let you go," Daemian said, slowly taking off his pants, revealing his own, skull-branded wrestling trunks. "But I didn't say when...."

The End!