General Chang

[Chang grumbled slightly when the turbulence hit, particularly when the Admiral voice came through, but didn't feel particularly bothered by it. Nietzscheans were more like Klingons than the regular human, at least as far as senses were concerned.

It was the sharp pinch against his ribs that woke him up completely. He shifted to find out what it was and found that it was grown out of his arms.

He looked at it in curiosity, glancing over to where K'Nera had lain. The panther, woken by the turbulence, looked up at him in a similar questioning manner.

He got up, got mostly dressed (he didn't bother with trying to get the bone blades into sleeves) before he appears on the communicator, showing off the new blades.]

I would like to spar.

[Yes, he has the best priorities, ladies and gentlemen.]

[There's a long pause here.] I require more furs.[Klingons do not like the cold.]

[The images is crackling when it turns on and it doesn't look like it's on on purpose. All the viewer sees between the interference bursts are Chang's hands pouring something into a bowl, candles being the only constant source of light in between the malfunctioning lights. The candles light higher for a second and Chang's hands disappear back into the picture, only the vaguest hints of light framing his ridges, the tip of his nose some of his uniform.]

ghoS Kahless.

[Chang has been brooding in his room, feeling increasingly unsatisfied. The ever-creeping feeling that he's just accepting what's being dealt his way, missing a battle-port and realising how meekly he waits for each one doesn't sit well with him.

So today he's made a decision.

He switches on the camera and looks at it, his jaw set, completely serious.] The Death Toll. Few of us here have not experience it. We are told what it is when we first arrive. The Admiral brings us back at the behest of our warden.

To a human, this is undoubtedly a blessing. The sting of death has a cure. Oh, like all venom, it is not pleasant, nor should a 'right-thinking' individual inflict themselves to it, for mere sport, but a cure exists, another enhancement in medical science. [Can you taste the contempt?]

But I am not human. And this Admiral, in being merciful or vindictive, however your minds view this, has robbed me of my most sacred rite. [Feel free to misinterpret this to mean 'right'.] Death. He has placed it lower, to mere 'battle wound'. Very well.

Why should you care, fellow mates of the barge, hmm? Because I, Chang, issue a challenge, help me earn the wounds of battle. We will no longer spar, but fight to the death.

I will accept volunteers for this only, and responses will be public. I will not kill you behind your warden's back, I am not your assassin. I am merely a warrior, attempting to find meaning in this hollow barge.

[OOC: No, Chang hasn't been affected by nanomites or anything like that, just wants a challenge. He means what he says though, so no filtering please. He'll also simply not respond to anyone who doesn't at least show that they respect where he's coming from. Death = bad or trolling won't receive responses, guys.]

[Video shows us a dark, rusty looking room. The vaguest shapes of a man can been seen through the gloom and he's not best pleased.]

Tell me. [His voice is as sugary sweet as a Klingon's gets, that is he's smiling a shark's kind of smile but his voice is smooth and seductive.] What trickery is this?

Beaming me out before my death, hmm?

You should profane the service of the dead? [Tuts and waves his finger as if to a small child and leans forward into the light.] Tell me how my healing was done?