Testing. 1.2.3. [Draco]

[Nero]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 100px; border-bottom: 20px solid; ]	[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 200px;]	[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 100px; border-bottom: 20px solid; ]
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][cs=3][atrb=style, width: 360px; border-right: 20px solid; border-left: 20px solid; ] [STYLE=padding: 10px; font-family: tahoma, verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 12px;] Nero sighed, waiting for his opponent. He looked around the arena, quickly takin in the detail. It was concrete all around, not a speck of grass to be seen. But that was fine with him, all the more to crush. He kept his Guns hidden on his body, wearing his usual attire. Black Suit pants. White dress shirt, top two buttons unbuttoned. A simple black tie. And a large coat that seemed impossible to take off, draped around him by his shoulders, hiding his hands. He waited for his opponent, hands hidden and ready. He wanted to end this quickly yet efficiently. He didn't want any chance of survival. This wasn't war. This wasn't a battle. If Nero were to have his way, this would be a slaughter. [/style][STYLE=padding: 10px 30px 10px 30px; font-family: tahoma; font-size: 10px; line-height: 12px;]words too lazy to count tags Oh-Pah-En notes let's go muthafuckas[/style]
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 100px; border-top: 20px solid;]	[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 200px;]	[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 100px; border-top: 20px solid;]

made by zetta

[Franciscus Draco]

[style=background-color: #31363a; width: 450px; font-family: century gothic; color: #f1f1f1; size: 32px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-align: center; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 30px; ]In this land where the power lives[/style]
[style=font-family: arial; color: #31363a; font-size: 10px; text-align: center; text-transform: lowercase;]Where they devour kids & acts of cowardice rule[/style]
[style=font-family: arial; color: #31363a; font-size: 10px; background-color: #ffffff; width: 400px; text-align: justify;]

Contrary to popular belief, barbarism is still very much alive. It thrives in the cracks of society, from a corrupt banker to a homeless man stealing for survival. Primitive in our methods, we stop at nothing in order to take. Take what we need to survive. Then take more, and more. Until the tightly woven fibers of our system slow wither away, and we're left in complete pandemonium. We try to deny this, hoping deep down that we are better than the simians we really are. But in reality, we're rotten to the core; we even utilize war and suffering as a means of entertainment. The Colosseum is a fine example. Large crowds pour in through the entrances, filling every seat on axis to the arena. Like a billion little ants, funneling outwards into the skies. The roar of the crowd muffling the talk between contestants, but with regards to the buildings construction, it has been materialized in such a way that sound doesn't linger. Rather, it quickly floods outwards through a grand opening at the crest of the dome. No attention fell on that, all eyes focused intently at the battle before them. Contestants rivaling each other in large arena, fighting to the death. Bashing one another's skull in, all within a fifty meter radius from the inner pulpit.

Stone in construct, layer upon layer made up the frame of this delicate water fountain. A large dragon in the center, extending its arms outwards and expanding it's monstrous jaws towards the skies. Rather than flames, a spout of water spewed from his muzzle, draining downwards through the seven layers previously described. Indeed, not a single blade of grass sprouted through the surface of course earth. Though dirt clouded at the hint of every step, producing a slight veil, or even bringing attention to the movements of a person. Large stone tombs filled the arena, budding six feet into the air, the large constructs filled the immediate area number ten in existence. Each thick in concrete, garnished burly metal poles to their exterior—adhered to the stone surface mind you.

Each were at least four meters appart, providing ample coverage in the small area upon which corsairs crossed blades. The invigorating sound of steel clashing with steel, a certain outcome. Yes. The first contestant stood with his back to the next, nourishing a fine selection of armaments tucked away in concealment. Guns plastered his upper back, angled at a position of uneasy access. Even the the small length of steel veiled beneath the legs of his pants, shown only by a slight bulge in his clothing—a small detail yet to escape the dragons ruby gems. In terms of meters, Draco stood a mere tenth of the arena's radius from his enemy. Feet drenched, he stood in preperation for a full scale barrage. Having slipped in through a tomb itself, it was as though death were crawling towards the dark haired figure. Ready to curl ivory digits around the throat if it's victim. Steel seized his hips. Held on a short leash, albeit, it was more of a wire. The thin wire that a trapeze gracefully crossed to entertain his onlookers. And if he slipped, he'd plummet to his death. Like the group of apples clustered on the floor near the dragon's feet. A solemn tree stump slain only a few meters to his east, but plantation survived yet. Fifteen meters in every direction began a treeline, which was filled to the outer edge with apple trees, lined adjacently to our silver haired corsair in a perpendicular fashion. Branches tucked along fleshy ribs, a bound was assembling its course.

[/style]

[style=font-family: arial; color: #31363a; font-size: 10px; text-align: center; text-transform: lowercase;]from a tool of violence and a shrouded bliss[/style][style=background-color: #31363a; width: 450px; font-family: Courier New; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 30px; ][/style][style=font-family: arial narrow; font-size: 9px;]freestyle (c) miles @ on the edge.[/style]

[Nero]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 100px; border-bottom: 20px solid; ]	[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 200px;]	[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 100px; border-bottom: 20px solid; ]
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][cs=3][atrb=style, width: 360px; border-right: 20px solid; border-left: 20px solid; ] [STYLE=padding: 10px; font-family: tahoma, verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 12px;] Nero couldn't quite figure out why he was so hesitant. It seemed like his opponent had enough to skill to make him cautious. That feat itself was impressive. Nero, a man who had escaped the clutches of the Marines, fought his way to Infamy as a Supenova, was not the type of man to give praise so easily. But this man, this man who hadn't made a single attempt on Nero's life yet, seemed to make the man cautious. He was dangerous. Focusing on his sound was easy, especially with no wind blowing. The trees were barely rustling and even through the roaring crowd, the silence and constant rhythm of the man's body gave him away. They were watching to see who would make the first move, who would react first, who would live. Nero could hear the man's breathing, the pounding of his heart, the blood rushing through his body. In this state of serenity, Nero's mind was clear, his movements almost instinctual. At this level of mastery, picking out the sounds in a crowd was a lot easier, allowing him to filter through. Using his Haste, he moved suddenly and abrupt, having left no evidence of what he was about to do until he did it. There was no pause in aiming, no hesitation, simply movement. In a split second he had pulled a pair of guns, one of seastone, the other not. His gloved hands protected him from the effects as he pulled the trigger within less than a second of drawing. The seastone bullet moved at 470 m/s, aimed at the center of the man's chest. The other bullet, made of normal lead, shot only a second after the first, aimed to an empty space to the right of the man. If the man moved right, he'd be hit by the bullet no doubt. If he moved none at all, he'd be hit by a seastone bullet. Nero was already prepared for a second shot to the left with the seastone gun. The man had two places left to go, left or down. Or maybe he'd figure something out. It didn't really matter though. Nero was prepared to move in less than a second. [/style][STYLE=padding: 10px 30px 10px 30px; font-family: tahoma; font-size: 10px; line-height: 12px;]words too lazy to count tags Oh-Pah-En notes let's go muthafuckas[/style]
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 100px; border-top: 20px solid;]	[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 200px;]	[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, width: 100px; border-top: 20px solid;]

made by zetta