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Midus Sonners Vice Captain
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 Posted: Sat Aug 21, 2010 11:07 am
 VS. 
Field Measurements: The stage itself rises off the ground by one foot and a half. As for the other measurements:
The square in the middle is the mat placed at the center of the stage. The red rectangles represents the light railings over the stage, which rise fifteen feet into the air.
Ten Count Boundary: Being thrown off the stage or climbing on the light railing starts the ten count.
Other Penalties: Having heard of the damage done to the stage at the previous round, the movie studio present this round have given strict orders that they do not want their expensive equipment destroyed. Therefore, as a special rule this round, any fighter that shows inconsideration toward their plea in terms of using their equipment as weapons, including the light railings, will be in danger of DQ. Accidents happen, but the judges will easily be able to tell if damage was intention or not. Also, attacking spectators or the cameramen will naturally result in a DQ.
Fight Ends: Aug 31st, 9:00 PM Central
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Posted: Mon Aug 23, 2010 3:31 pm
Prior to the fight, at the hotel..
"We have a missive from the tournament's staff. You're supposed to avoid any intentional breaking of equipment at the next stage. I guess someone wasn't happy about the destruction you and James created last round."
The warrior rolled his shoulders, imitating a nonchalant shrug while he fixed the straps and buckles of his boots, hunched over in a plush chair. "So, I'll have to pay for anything I break this time?" he asked, standing up to pull the straps of his jacket taut so that the leather fit closely to the contours of his body. It didn't need to be unbearably tight, or strangely so - just tight enough to his form that someone couldn't grab any excess leather and hold on.
"More like they'll disqualify you if they think you're wrecking things just to be a git," Johnnie clarified. Deitric only shrugged again in response.
"I guess I'll avoid doing that then. But it's not my fault or my opponent's if their equipment is too close to the fight in the first place. That's their problem. We're just there to fight."
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Underneath the roar of the crowd, the double-bass juggajuggajuggajugga of an engine rumbled as a motorcycle of midnight and chrome of slowed to a halt on the outside perimeter of the ring, just beyond the crowd where a Psi 9 News Station van was parked, its satellite cocked up into the air to catch inbound signals.
Killing the engine with a final growl of sound, the leather-garbed rider removed his helmet, revealing a tall, thin slash of hair that went from the front of his scalp to the base of his skull in a militant mohawk, with twin braids running down from the the back of the 'hawk; the remains of his long mane after his encounter with James Eredas.
Aside from his hair, the man didn't look any worse for wear, although he did look like he was recovering from what had been - at one point - a bad sunburn. He was missing his usual bandanna and shades, revealing a pair of deep set, thoughtful eyes of bright turquoise.
Without ceremony, the fighter took the East pathway to the raised fighting platform. Cameras flashed, casting his side profile into stark relief as he passed. Without a word, he put one boot up onto the edge of the arena and heaved himself up in a single step. Lazily, the Khasmin man made his way to the center of the mat, walking slowly around it, examining the area they were meant to fight in.
Any undue equipment was well enough away, it seemed. That much, Deitric was thankful for - unlike in the previous stage, they had a wholly and entirely even playing field to fight on. No more prancing, annoying pop singer, nothing to get in the way. The fighting area was by no means large, either. Not that he minded.
Without much to observe in the ways of his surroundings, the man opted to stand and wait for his opponent to arrive.
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Posted: Tue Aug 24, 2010 10:56 am
26.5 seconds after Deitric started waiting
"Deitric! My dearest friend! How have you been?" Saphen shouted to his opponent as he entered from the West pathway. The crowd erupted again in another series of cheers and taunts as the audience rallied their respective sides before the battle had even started. Two veterans of this very tournament, one being a winner no less, were about to battle in glorious combat. If there was an empty seat in the house one poor elderly man couldn't find it. Lucky for him, however, a lovely woman was an excellent reason to stand behind an already taken seat.
Saphen held the violin and bow in the same hand, forming an X shape as they intersected each other. The other hand waved happily at his opponent, today was truly a most joyful day for the musician indeed!
"What an honor to be able to fight the gre-" suddenly the bard felt a tapping on his shoulder. The masked man's face turned slowly, a silence not typical of the musician pressured the cameraman into speaking.
"S.s.sorry to interrupt but they wanted me to...well I wanted to...that they wanted me to tell you," the cameraman began to sweat.
"Just speak plainly..." the bard said, a certain kindness touched his slightly strained voice. The very same way a parent spoke to a child when they were becoming impatient.
"Try not to break the equipment!" the man suddenly blurted out before running back to the safety of his team.
The bard began to laugh, at first it started low and began to grow louder and louder until it had turned into a roaring cackle. This excited the crowd more, was it possible that the bard would go insane yet again?
"You think we are fools? We are men, NO! We are WARRIORS!!!" the bard screamed, waving both of his hands outward as the crowd screamed even louder than before.
"Keep your equipment out of our way..." he said softly "And we will give you a show one should never...FORGET!!!" the pause before his last word causing undue strain and anticipation before forcing the crowd onto their feet. A frenzy of cheers and other obscene sounds of blood lust forming in the ranks of the audience as the bard bowed to his opponent respectively.
"Shall we begin dear friend? Before we are interrupted again?"
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Posted: Tue Aug 24, 2010 9:37 pm
"Well enough," he offered, reaching up to brush one hand along his nearly-bald scalp while he spoke. He had worn his hair in the mohawk more often when he was younger, preferring to keep his hair full and long. However, on more than one occasion, he had been forced to adopt the warrior's fashion. Occasions that usually involved being set aflame.
Deitric watched the exchange with disinterest, hands clasped behind his back, although he could empathize with the bard. He didn't particularly care for the stipulations; if the movie company thought that the fighters were going to hold back for the sake of their equipment, they were sadly mistaken. At most, they had just gotten a promise that nothing would be broken intentionally.
"Let's," the brave agreed. His hands unclasped and came up as he began to move forward. The right lifted to guard the lower side of his face, but the left had hooked his fingers beneath the head of one of his tomahawks and slung it free like a quick-draw with a pistol, whipping it forward and through the air towards his opponent, relying on a twist and whip of his forearm to hurtle the axe instead of a full-arm throw.
Whether or not the flying projectile struck Saphen wasn't as important as what it did when it left Deitric's hand. As the axe flew through the air, it emitted a keening, ear-splitting wail that made many people in the crowd recoil. Unbeknown to most people, the tomahawks had taken on a somewhat sinister magical property; when flying through the air, they released a piercing screech that was meant to disrupt or distract those who cast spells.
Following closely behind the tomahawk was its thrower, dashing forward with the staccato, swift beat of his boots tattooing the ground beneath his feet as he ran. Deitric knew - more likely than not - that he was running right into a potential attack from the bard. The tribesman hoped the flung weapon would give him an extra moment. He needed to close the distance to bring the bard to bear.
At least, unlike in his first round, the arena worked in his favor. Smaller, sharp angles and corners. Now he only had to put it to use.
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Posted: Wed Aug 25, 2010 1:22 pm
The tribesman prepared for his attack, formalities ending at the moment the powerful man reached for his weapon. Saphen's gloved fingers twitched in anticipation as the large man before him began to move.
Hidden eyes remained focused on Deitric's torso...watching as large muscles respond to silent commands. There was no reason to look into the eyes of his combatant, he would soon forget he ever did. The memory of battle for Saphen was filled with nothing but the sweet and loving sound of music. The melodic whispers of whirling blades, crashing hammers, and shattering bones. A symphony that he only had a small part in but it was a performance worth showcasing time and time again.
The weapon whistled through the air, causing the bard to strafe to his left as he brought his instrument up to play. Putting both of his hands together for only a moment so that he could get a grip on his bow before placing the instrument beneath his chin. Barely a note hummed from metal strings when something most wondrous and yet most sinister happened.
The sudden shriek from the metal beast interrupted the musician's concentration. The crowd applauded happily, enjoying new found misfortune as the bard prepared to adapt. Fans once fully devoted to the entertainer only seconds before were now already switching bets. The audience of battle was indeed a cruel mistress to be won thought the bard as he heard sounds of joy fill the arena.
"Your words had forked no lightning they!" the bard yelled in reply as he raised his right arm. The tips of the agave plant peeked out for only a moment before a mass of tendrils shot forth.
"Amazingly clever...nothing less from a master of his element eh?" spoke the musician plainly as the assault of plant sinew aimed to intercept Deitric's torso. Each living rope attempting to impale some part of his opponent's body in order to slow down his assault.
Like the lightning thief before him the attack was not about striking so much as forcing an action to occur. Like any good conductor he needed the tempo to move to his command and if Deitric wanted speed the bard would simply have to force him into a much slower beat.
Legato perhaps?
Since the bard had stepped out of the path of the weapon Deitric would have to adjust his position yet again to avoid the mass of sharp thorns aimed for his midsection.
Now it was time to learn just how fast Deitric was...
Buff Counter Buff Counters Gained: 1/2
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Posted: Wed Aug 25, 2010 10:33 pm
Deitric didn't show any inclination to slow down or leap out of the way of the attack. The bunch of pointed vines collided with his central mass as his running form hurtled and kept going, his upper body momentarily twisting while he stutter-stepped to keep his rhythm of movement. If the plant's hadn't buckled beneath his continued charge, his sweeping arm would knock the attack to the side and let him continue on. Fortunately, a plant usually didn't have the same weight as a man - otherwise, the brave would have been in some real trouble. For almost any person on the planet, the normal response after running into a phalanx of spear-pointed plants should have been to stop and consider the multitude of puncture wounds adorning their chest. Deitric had deviated far from that response; he'd only slowed down momentarily while his legs double-stepped to keep his forward momentum. Where there should have been dribbling blood, there was only torn leather, with glinting black beneath, like opaquely colored acrylic. There were chips missing in the mystery material where it had taken some damage in the exchange. The armor, albeit light in comparison to what he used to wear, did its job. The brave felt like someone had just given him a proper punch to the chest, but the armor had absorbed most of the attack's force. It still hurt, but at least he wasn't leaking blood all over the place or running around with leafy greens embedded in his flesh. He didn't have time to consider the saving grace the armor provided, though. He was still running. A light had come on in his eyes, and the bard's attack hadn't done anything to dull it in the least. If the brave had managed to close in on his opponent, he'd start swinging; his right hand lashing out in a sharp overhand aimed to cap his opponent squarely in the center of his mask - right where the nose should have been. With any luck, Saphen wouldn't have expected him to barrel through the attack like he had; after all, Deitric didn't wear any visible armor to suggest that he'd had the ability to run into a bramble of thorns and come out without being shredded. The tribesman wasn't ready to lay into his opponent with everything he had just yet - he just wanted to make sure he was close enough to exert a constant pressure on the bard, to keep him from taking bow to string, or doing something else that might have been similarly unfortunate for Deitric. He didn't know how the man's magic - or whatever it might have been - worked, but common experience told him that letting his opponents do their magic usually meant bad times ahead. The faster Saphen was brought to bear and kept in reach of attack, the better things would go.
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Posted: Thu Aug 26, 2010 10:35 pm
Deitric your tactic is logical one thought the bard. Break the line that separated the two and keep pressure on the weaker. This was a strategy employed time and time again by the countless opponents Saphen fought and not with out merit. The musician required time to build up his store of magic and to enhance his abilities, give him less time...and he was weaker.
But because of this constant assault that occurred with every battle Saphen became more and more prepared for it. He calculated the best course of action, thoughts processing faster than the average man's as his opponent decided to employ a more physical approach. Saphen was a thinker, it was one of his greatest assets and yet a primary weakness at times. But with a plan formulated he prepared for the worst. The thunder drum slammed through his plant assault, every biting thorn trying to cut and pierce skin to no avail.
The musician to stepped backwards, his right foot moving behind him as the punch came surging downward. Aimed to crush the very 'face' that the bard cared for so dearly as his own.
"Do not go gentle into that good night..." the musician whispered as he began to shift his momentum to defend.
Saphen raised his left arm in defense, the violin becoming parallel with it as the euphoria millie plant shot forth to counter. The plant extended a foot off of his wrist, spear like in shape and covered in large and nasty thorns. A menacing sight for any to behold but there would be little time for observation. His living weapon thirsted for blood and the bard would oblige it as best as he could.
As Saphen's right foot stepped backwards his left arm would strike across his body in a vertical chop.
Saphen aimed to strike Deitric's forearm, intercepting the attack in one swift motion as he pushed all of his weight against his durable plant. With the reach advantage now favoring the bard he would be able to dictate it's motion before it could strike his stone fortress.
Grunting in strain he would deflect the punch away, parrying it across Deitric's body as he stepped to his left. Despite his physical exertion the poetry would continue, pushing through pursed lips as he gathered more energy.
"Rage!...RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT!"
As the words escaped him the bard would lift his right arm over his own head, twirling it in an odd circular motion for one reason only...
This action would cause the other end of the tendrils to smack directly into the tribesman's face. Effectively blocking his vision momentarily as the bard would push off his opponent's massive arm to side step the charge. But if any of the thorns were lucky enough to stick...or even if there was a chance that the spinning tendrils could wrap around his opponent's face another advantage would be gained.
The bard would be able to control the motion of Deitric's head, if his opponent continued to move forward he might be able to pull him off of his feet.
But only time would tell if that plan would have any merit of it's own...
Buff Counters Buff Counters Gained: 1/2 Buff Counters Accumulated: 1
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Posted: Thu Aug 26, 2010 11:12 pm
The second plant lashed out, but there was a barrier between it and Deitric's face - his left arm, which was still up in a guard. The flash of green made him bring his forearm in front of his face to turn his boxing guard into a real block, the thorny vines lashing futilely at his forearms, pricks of hard nettles catching in the leather. The brave didn't falter when his punch was blocked - he had expected it to be blocked, dodged, or intercepted. That left them in relatively close contact - close enough for hand to hand combat, which was exactly where he wanted to be with his opponent. Normally, such constant attacks as Saphen's would have caused someone to falter, to retreat momentarily to regather, reform, and begin anew. Deitric had no intent to do that, either from sheer stubbornness, or a driving instinct to push forward. Be it thought or reflex that motivated his actions, it set him on a course to follow. The attacking vines struck his arm (and possibly wrapped around it), and the Khasmin man responded in kind now that they were up close and personal to one another. Abilities â–ºBlitzkrieg Knee - Similar to the Thunder Drum, Deitric channels his static power into his legs before letting the power explode outwards, propelling him forward for an explosively painful knee attack, which will usually discharge some amount of electricity on impact, depending on how powerful the attack is when used. Saphen could misdirect the punch, and Deitric could block the vines, but chances were misdirecting an entire body flying through the air was going to be much more unlikely. The black-haired warrior exploded from his position, going from about zero to fifteen miles per hour in a flash - whatever couple of feet lay between them were going to be gone before the crowd could even blink. It was as if he had been standing nearly still, and had just abruptly started moving at a running pace. No telegraph, no build up - just a sudden propulsion forward. But it wasn't the force of the incoming knee aimed at his central mass or the electrical charge that came with it that the bard would need to worry about. It would be that the fact that a two hundred and twenty-five pound man was colliding with him, aiming to bowl him over to the ground like a pouncing lion bringing down its prey. And like a hunting cat, he would latch on with his hands (rather than claws, which he lacked) to make sure he could drag his opponent down. It wasn't necessarily elegant, but it was efficient. He might not have had tricks up his sleeves in the literal sense like Saphen did, but the tribesman had his own ways of putting things in his favor - and they could be just as surprising as the bard's tools when he loosed them on his opponent.
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Posted: Sat Aug 28, 2010 2:02 pm
Out of the night that covers me
The bard's mind unlocked the stored power he had saved right before the tribesman crashed into him. Initially he was preparing for some sort of physical strike from his opponent's other hand but he didn't realize just how fast his opponent could be for such a large man. Saphen would have admired the speed and grace that his opponent had used to conduct the attack even more if it wasn't he who was the target. Later the bard would remind himself to write a limerick or two about Deitric's 'lightning reflexes' but such things were later in time.
A hidden expression of anger formed beneath Saphen's mask right before impact...he hadn't calculated this possibility. The pain surged through his body, a cry of agony escaping pursed lip as the musician was pushed backwards by the sheer force of impact. Saphen had gathered energy and released it into his newly found buff, calling upon the strength of earth to make him more durable...but it wasn't strong enough to buffer an attack of that magnitude. The bard's skin began to harden, muscles hidden beneath fabric began to tighten as his opponent moved over him. He could feel some type of energy cause these very muscles to twitch in sharp pain though luckily for him his vine and leather chest piece buffered some of the blow.
Black as the Pit from pole to pole
The newly found endurance allowed the bard to continue gathering energy...but just barely. "I thank what ever God may be..."the musician whispered as he looked up to see Deitric trying to consume him in a mass of muscle. His right hand instinctively spinning the sharpened bow around as he fell. Holding the center of his violin's commanding partner before stabbing it right into Deitric's left shoulder, shouting the next line of poetry as he did.
"FOR MY UNCONQUERABLE SOUL!"
The crowd cheered as it witness the bard toppled by Deitric's powerful strike. They yearned to watch blood splatter as the bard attempted to defend himself from the onslaught...and defense was truly all the bard could think of at that moment. Whether his stab would hit at all his left arm would still move quickly to shield against any possible strikes. The arm was already near his chest from deflecting Deitric's previous attack and so with that in mind he would use his living spear to defend his left side...but that would depend on how the tribesman planned to use his new advantage.
They would be grappling at this point and his larger opponent had the advantage of surprise as well as positioning. Still the bard would not quit, he was prepared to battle until he could not any longer. He was prepared to show the GTB that he too could bleed like any other gladiator until there was nothing left but glory on the field of battle. Saphen had much more to prove than simply winning a fight...he wanted to prove that he could survive it as well.
Buff Counters Buff Counters gained: 1/2 Buff Counters Used: 1 (Level 1: Strength of Earth) Time Remaining on Buff: 3 Posts Buff Counters left: 1/2
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Posted: Sun Aug 29, 2010 1:03 pm
In the fall to the ground, Deitric felt a slicing, stinging warmth in his shoulder. Unlike the vines, the wood of the violin's bow was sturdy enough to push the hard, metal point through his armor, breaking a couple of the scales and scything across the joint. It hadn't punched into the flesh, but it had cut into it. Whether or not it was going to hinder him significantly was impossible to tell by pain alone.
When they hit the ground, the point of the bow caught against the back of the jacket, cutting across the dark skinned warrior's flesh and continuing through the garment's backing and its scaled ablative armor. Blood dribbled down the wood of the bow from his wound. Saphen had scored first blood. Deitric's brows were furrowed with pain and determination, but nothing else showed in his irisless, intent expression except the will to win.
On the ground, and on-top of his opponent, the tribesman didn't need his shoulder to be functional for what came next. Almost like a bear-trap, he seemed to spring close - not by lashing out at his opponent, who was guarding with his thorny vines and his arm, but at the straightened right that had tried to jam the violin bow into him.
The brave's right and left hands both moved; the right aiming to grasp Saphen's arm by the wrist, while the left aiming to cup the bard's arm just beneath the outside of the elbow. The idea was simple - painful, but simple. By applying pressure to the forearm in one direction, and to the elbow in the opposite direction, Deitric intended to snap the arm right at the joint by bending it in the "wrong" direction. By using both hands, he only sped the process up - pushing the elbow against the opposing force on the forearm would only wrench things out of place that much sooner.
Some in the crowd might have pointed out that Deitric was deviating from his normal pattern; in times past he had used the same situation of being on-top of his opponent to punch them into submission. But there never was a plan - just instinct. A spider didn't plan to trap something in its web, a snake didn't plan to constrict its prey to death. It was instinct; generations of shared memory and reflex that told them to do it. Any plans were spur of the moment, and never came together more than one or two steps in advance.
Instinct said to break the arm. A wordless urge had wanted him to simply end the fight in a flurry of blows, to burn energy and finish things as fast as possible, regardless of whatever pain might have come upon him for opening the floodgates and forcing his body to adapt to the demands. But instinct, and the second-nature reflexes that came from fighting and training to fight, came first.
It might not have ended the fight, but a broken arm or dislocated elbow could put a damper on most fighter's intents of struggle.
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Posted: Sun Aug 29, 2010 4:23 pm
In the fell clutch of circumstance
Saphen watched as his opponent moved to grasp his right arm, intent on breaking it. Thoughts flooded the bard's mind, the anticipation of great pain causing him to sweat with fear. His entire body begging him to flee, to prevent carnage to the sanctum that was his flesh...but the bard did not yield.
It may have been possible for the musician to fight against it, defend his arm from the tortures of hell, but his mind was not focused there. The bard would not win a strength competition...he had to deal damage of his own. Ideas and calculations pushed taken hold where fear once resided, steeling his mind the very moment he needed it.
As Deitric went to grasp his right arm Saphen pulled back his left. Moving it away from his chest as he began to put his plan into actions. He could feel hands tightening around his appendage but the musician never faltered.
Saphen pulled back his arm as best as he could, the fact that he was on his back was causing his next action to be somewhat weaker than it would have been standing up. A battle cry of poetry pierced his opponent's ears just as his plant intended to do the same to his flesh.
"I HAVE NOT WINCED!"
the words were mixed with agony and tournment as his opponent broke his arm at the very same time. The point of his spear plant stabbing into Deitric's under arm would be the next verse in the lovely sonnet known as battle. "NOR CRIED ALOUD!!!!" the bard shouted once more, hoping to feel his weapon bore into Deitric's body as he released all of his pent up pain in one subtle line of poetry. The area he aimed for became exposed as Deitric shifted to grip Saphen's right arm, allowing him a chance to return the favor. Right before his arm was broken, however, the bard had managed to push himself into the second stage of his buff.
Buff Info Level 2: Endurance: Saphen's skin finishes hardening, allowing him to take blows in a similar fashion to someone somewhat heavier than him (think light heavy weight boxer)
While this increase in power could only do so much for the pain it still allowed the bard to endure the struggle with greater clarity. If he was able to pierce the tribesman's skin he would push the point in as deep as it would go. Shaking it violently to let any thorns rend flesh or the thick shaft of his weapon press against bone in an attempt to throw Deitric off his offense.
Tears slithered down Saphen's cheeks though his 'real' face remained emotionless. No one could truly understand a warriors pride in battle as much as the warrior himself. Show no fear...in the worst situations...on the brink of death...show no fear.
To affirm this thought, Saphen whispered right after his thrust, finishing the verse of poetry he had started.
"Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed..."
Buff Counters Buff Counters Gained: 1/2 Buff Counters Used: 1 (Level 2: Strength of Earth) Time Remaining on Buff: 3 Posts Buff Counters Left: 0 Pain Counters: 1
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Posted: Sun Aug 29, 2010 8:18 pm
It wasn't the spear-point of the vines that was worrisome - it proved to be the thorns. The spear point had to contend with the armor, which could dent its usefulness a bit, but the thorns could hook onto the scales where they overlapped and "ruffle" them, displacing and shifting them so that they no longer protected his flesh. Shaking and shoving it to and fro over Deitric's arm gored his flesh on nearly a dozen curved, pointed barbs; tearing and gouging into the side of his right arm's triceps. That elicited a much more noticeable response from the tribesman, as blood began to wash down over his be-leathered forearm from where the bunch of nettle-points were being scraped over and against his flesh, right through the leather of his jacket. It wasn't something he, or any fighter could rightly ignore. Pain shot up and down along the nerves in his arm, lighting a fire from his finger tips to his shoulder. Heaving his weight back, the tribesman looked as if he were throwing himself backward and onto his feet - except that he hadn't let go of his opponent's broken arm. The air around them rippled in a heat wave momentarily as Deitric unleashed one of his own abilities. quote â–ºEagle's Dance - With this attack, Deitric throws himself into a whirlwind of spinning motion, his tomahawks (or fists) whirling around as the warrior turns himself into a human cyclone of sharp steel and shocking electricity. This attack isn't very draining on Deitric, and generally used to drive an opponent back, should they be bearing too heavily on the tribesman for his tastes. Spinning on the spot, the black-haired brave used his own weight to yank Saphen up and around, aiming to spin a 180 and hurtle the bard away from their previous position and into the hard, arena flooring with the momentum of his spin. Flying through the air wouldn't have hurt, and landing might have been rough, but being slung around by a broken arm probably hurt as much as having it broke, if not more. Assuming his opponent didn't manage to halt or effectively foul the hair-trigger response, Deitric would be left standing in place, aspirating misted blood from his nose. It felt as if someone had jammed a needle into both of his nostrils and popped a blister in each; some small blood-vessels had ruptured and were leaking crimson down his face in a steady stream, forcing him to breath from his mouth. The sensation was eye-wateringly painful, but he ignored it. When he wiped his hand over the rush of vitae, it left the blood in a long, uneven streak; like macabre war-paint coating the lower half of his features. If Saphen had let go of the bow when his arm broke, Deitric would pull it from the leather and throw it off into the no man's land between the crowd and the stage, wincing as his right arm moved. Barbs were stuck fast in his flesh, and any contraction or stretch of his triceps flared with pain. The thorns had scored his flesh, leaving the underside of his upper arm a mess of shredded leather and blood. How much loss of movement he suffered he couldn't discern, but his right arm felt significantly weaker than his left. Taking a moment to compose himself, the tribesman would begin to stalk forward towards his opponent, wherever the bard now lay. He wasn't sure if the man wanted to continue fighting, but he could only assume so. Saphen had managed to bloody the Khasmin warrior much more than the crowd had seen in previous matches, but blood was deceiving, and the loss of it didn't seem to slow him down in the face of an opponent who was still willing to fight.
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Posted: Sun Aug 29, 2010 9:43 pm
Saphen gasped, his heart racing as the feeling of his damaged arm caused him great frustration. The feeling was as exquisite as it was unbearable, like the perfect ending to a tragic musical. Suffering was something to be admired once you were healed...but when you were living it...it was something to dread.
"My head is bloody..." he managed to whisper as the tribesman yanked him upward, his poem being cut off by another scream of agony. The musician's gaze locked onto his opponents uncharacteristically for just a moment. Even though he knew he would soon forget what it looked like...he wanted to say that he looked into the eyes of his greatest battle...unafraid.
The bard's left hand grabbed the still loose tendrils of his agave plant only seconds before his opponent began his rain dancing practice. The bard had no expectations of what was about to happen, only the sheer defiance that he wouldn't go down with out a fight. Right before his opponent began to spin he grunted loudly, whipping the tendrils at Deitric's face and neck. If he was lucky, this would cause them to wrap around Deitric's head...hopefully blocking vision and giving him some leverage. Saphen's hidden face grinned if and when his plan worked, he might be able to choke his opponent out if he could some how manage to get a hold on the now wrapped plant sinew. But even this minor joy, this subtle piece of his "grand" plan for victory...was short lived.
Suddenly his opponent began to spin, launching the musician away at great speed. The bard quickly tucked his beloved violin against his chest, leaving his right arm to suffer any damage that may come from the fall. The music must always be protected thought the bard...even if it meant his death.
Hidden eyes snapped shut, not wishing to witness the blurred image of the world as he flew through the air. He could feel the same energy causing his body to spasm and pain to erupt over every inch of his form. But this was not what he was worried about as he descended...it was indeed the landing.
Luckily he managed to some how land almost on his back with a powerful thump, but his right arm whipped into the ground...being tugged by the agave plant if his tendrils did manage to keep hold on the tribesman. If he managed to pull Deitric at all he would erupt in an even greater scream...but this one was not the empty sound of a Capella...there was poetry in it.
His voice sung with great passion and pain "BUT UNBOWED!!!" The words echoed and faded beneath the roar of the crowd, the musician rolling several times before he stopped on his stomach. People cheered louder, the sounds of clapping hands and stomping feet fully devoured the feebly attempts the musician had to speak.
He could feel a small pinch of pain on the back of his neck as he looked up at his opponent. A sudden plan formulating in his mind as the realization of hope filled his head.
The pitcher plant, that gripped to his body with sharp teeth at the base of his neck, was gathering energy from the suffering he endured. With two great shocks of pain the plant's power was almost full...and he could release a new ability of his own. The bard began to stagger to his feet, his left hand pressing against the arena floor as he slowly pushed himself up.
His poetry told his opponent everything he needed to know...it said.
I won't stop fighting...ever...
Buff Counters Buff Counters Gained: 1/2 Buff Counters Used: 0 (Level 2: Strength of Earth) Time Remaining on Buff: 2 Posts Buff Counters Left: 1/2 Pain Counters: 2
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Posted: Sun Aug 29, 2010 10:39 pm
The vine managed to catch at his face, but it was too late for second guesses, now. When the brave launched the bard, the vine was forcibly ripped from its constriction on his head, but unlike it didn't uncoil, so much as violently slough off from the force of the two men's separation. Deitric lurched with the force and fell to a kneel at the end of his throw, like a discus thrower who had scratched their attempt - still successful, but not quite as fluid. His neck throbbed painfully, and a half-dozen scratches marred his face where rough plant matter had acted like sandpaper on his skin, lighting up his nerves with a stinging, burning pain. It was one of the few instances that the tribesman had ever been brought low, however fleeting and temporary it was. Blood dripped from his face onto the mat in a consistent tempo of drip-drip, drip-drip. The urge in the back of his mind grew, and his lips pulled back into a snarl of determination. YOU'D BETTER RUN, FORGET YOUR PRIDE The air around the tribesman began to audibly thrum, faint at first until it grew and deepened into the rolling bass and treble of thunder. He rose from his kneeling position, and light poured forth from his sockets, burning the shadows away from his bloodied face. No irises, pupils, or even whites; just glowing, blue-white illumination. Bright arcs of electricity snapped and jumped in and out of existence around him, dancing along the studs and spikes of his jacket.
DON'T MAKE A STAND, JUST STEP ASIDE
The wheels were turning, and he began to force his body to generate electricity in greater and greater amounts. Power paid in blood, he began to bleed anew, the coppery taste bloomed in his mouth before he spat out a half-mouthful of crimson onto the mat. How much he could stand to sacrifice for power was hard to say - the longer it lasted, the more he gave. It was a thin line between recklessness and calculated risk that he walked, now. IF YOU DON'T HAVE WHAT IT TAKES It was impossible to tell, but Deitric's gaze seemed to settle on Saphen after a moment. His face had set into a stony, unreadable mask; every bit as much as the real one that the bard wore. After doing away with the bow, he began to approach the other man with the same, unfaltering stare of a predator on the move. The bard was too resilient to take chances with. DON'T TRY TO PLAY YOUR STAKES The more distance he covered, the louder the thrum of power grew. But now, it was distinctly different. It adopted the sound of feedback from when an instrument came too close to the amp it was plugged into - a scratch of static, replaced by a loud wail of electric interference. Some of the electricity he was summoning was being transduced into pure, atonal sound. The mechanical howl intensified with each step until even his own ears rang, but he didn't stop. REMEMBER THIS AT LEAST - IT'S THE NATURE OF THE BEAST Deitric's left hand raised, and the studs and spikes that adorned his jacket ripped off, flying across the five or six feet between them, aiming to pepper the bard with a barrage of tiny, stinging missiles, swarming around him like an angry nest of hornets. It wouldn't feel good, but it wasn't necessarily the most dangerous thing in the world. What was dangerous, was having a lot of metal surrounding you, while fighting someone who acted as a human arc-caster - the metal that was trying to bombard Saphen know acted as a sort of lightning rod, for when Deitric prepared to loose his next attack.
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Posted: Mon Aug 30, 2010 10:53 pm
Saphen staggered to his feet, hunching over slightly in pain as he stared at his opponent. His right arm hanging weakly at his side, every twitch causing a tinge of pain to course through the musician's body. The vines quickly withdrew, returning to the sweet solace of his agave.
Solace...it was a place he wished he could find at that moment.
His shield was heavy...
His beloved violin slipped out of his fingers, tapping gently against the floor but his focus never wavered. He could feel his hot breath against the stone wall of his mask...his left hand raising to grip it.
His Helmet was stifling...
The bard pulled at his mask, the buckle in the back reluctantly releasing it's grasp on his head as he pulled it off. Deitric adorned a mask all his own, it was only proper that the bard removed his. While his hand was close to his face he wiped the sweat from his forehead...his hood sliding back as he did. Deitric's body was visibly straining at this point, gathering what ever ungodly energy he mustered as the bard watched on...and the audience gasped as they watched him. Dark blue hair covered the musician's head, matching irises seemed to flicker wildly.... inhuman like in nature. His face was baby like in nature with soft features and freckles all over his cheeks. But his gaze never quite focused on Detric's face however, always reverting back to his torso before shooting back up again. It was as if the bard was a robot, calculating his next action as his lips tightened to such a degree that they became as white as his skin was. Poetry fluttered through the bard's mind, intertwining with his thoughts of battle as his opponent gathered even more energy.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid
The bard spoke..."It matters not how straight the gate..." his opponent raised his hand. "How charged with punishment the scroll..." the bard rushed forward, his eyes irises shaking wildly as he did.
"I am the master of my fate..." the metal shards were launched "I AM THE CAPTAIN OF MY SOUL!!!" The bard screamed in determination as he literally whipped his nearly useless arm upward, many of the metal shards sticking into his agave but many more planted themselves into the skin of his appendage. Growls of suffering pushed through tightened lips but he forced himself onward. At the same moment energy released from the bard's own body, activating the third buff in his newly found arsenal.
Buff Info Level 3: Strength of Earth: Saphen's strength increases in a similar fashion to his endurance. His attacks have more weight behind and overall strength is increased. (Again like someone much heavier than him, heavy weight boxer example blah blah) He is also now able to take blows similar to that of a full heavy weight fighter.
The bard could feel his body growing stronger, adrenaline becoming the fuel for the once empty vessel as he raced to close the distance between them. Saphen still held the mask in his hand, fingers curled tightly around the front as he raised his left arm. The bard was pulling this very arm back as he dashed, the point of his plant aimed at Deitric...intent on impaling him once more. Blood covered many of the thorns that remained, similar in hue to the blood that now stained the white glove of his right hand.
A wild expression formed on Saphen's face...wild...but focused.
Focused on the prize...focused on the victory...focused...on battle...
Buff Counters Buff Counters Gained: 1/2 Buff Counters Used: 1 (Level 3: Strength of Earth) Buff Counters Left: 0 Pain Counters 3
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