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Fight!

Max had no idea what he was doing here, but he was excited, even giddy. He was something like a child at Christmas who got a sneak peak at their presents and wanted nothing more than to open them. But why here? Who had invited him here? Why? He would have thought it a mistake but his name was very clearly on the board as was his height and, well seeing that weight made him a little shy. Max hadnt seen the inside of ring in a very long while, he had since opened up an enchanting shop - the verb not the adjective - and while the occasional target did come his way there was much less work in dispatching a target than there was in a full on battle. His blood didnt simmer like it used too. With his butler dead and gone he had too many late nights and early mornings at diners or small shops and a couple extra pounds had smoothed over what was once just lean muscle. Now he was here, looking at a gated ring surrounded by seats - seemingly empty seats. He sat in one of those sights high and waited, and contemplated, and tried to decide if just maybe this was a trap.

And then, none of that mattered. There was he was, limbering up before entering the ring. A smile spread across Maximos' face stretching from ear to ear like a knife wound. He tried to look keep a casual aplomb and saunter into the ring, and failed miserably. Max barreled down the space between seats, grabbed the chain links of the fence and scurried up them like a monkey before hopping over the top of the gate and landing neatly in the ring. In his excitement, he lacked just about any of the preparation Lazenca had been calm enough to make.

Max wore a knee length black jacket with fancy silk lining and a hood, but that was quickly removed along with his glasses which were slipped into the jacket's breast pocket and then both were tossed over the fence. Beneath was a black vest, a white dress shirt, black slacks and black dress boots. Max looked woefully unprepared for a fight, but that was nothing new. While Mr. Miranda was donning his gear and Max set to rolling up his sleeves and choosing his. He snapped his fingers and a varitable catalog appeared around him. What appeared to be smoky black glass replicas of weapons hung in the air and danced by as he waved his hands looping around him like clothes on a department store display. A long sword. A katana. Something that looked like a massive butcher's knife, a pair of meat cleavers, two gauntlets, a pair of daggers, a rapier, each a story, each an option, the list went on. Which was going to make this the best it could be?

"Any time we meet, there's a fight happening." The voice came from across the ring, calm and collected and yet so very imposing. Lazenca was a beast. There was no two ways about it. There was an animal inside of him, or many there was only ever an animal and he wore a man outside of him. It was impossible to tell, and yet that was what Max respected so much about Lazenca. More over, the man was massive, just over six foot and three hundred pounds of raw primal fury. Who cares if he wasnt cut like Mr. Olympia, neither is a bear.

Max had a graveyard tan, short blue hair combed neatly to one side, two different color eyes, and was nearly a hundred pounds lighter than Laz even though he was maybe two inches taller. And yet he had the giddiest grin on his face.

"Traditions." The wolf said, and Max nodded and laughed softly.

"Does that mean its your turn to begin, or mine old friend?" But the question was rhetorical, as he adopted his combat stance Lazenca Miranda gave Max all the answers he'd need for the moment. The Shadow balled up his fist and the catalog of weapons vanished, the glass illusions shattering in place and dissolving to nothing before they hit the ground. Max knew exactly the right weapons to start this off.

"No, dont answer that. Let me break the ice." And with that he was off. Max may not have been in the pinnacle of form but speed was certainly one of his best assets. Unless the disturbed he would cross the gap between them in matter of seconds, slam his left foot down, letting the punch roll up his body, ball up his right fist and send a right hook soaring at Lazenca's face. His left hand was kept up in a position where it could possible function as a guard, but in truth that was more instinct from training than an actual protective measure. This was not the most strategically sound or secure move, and Max didnt care. He infact gave absolutely zero thought to his own safety when choosing his opening move. This wasnt a slight at all. In no way did Max underestimate his opponent, rather the opposite. He knew full well Lazenca was powerful, and that strength was going to clash against his viciously against him and devastate him and he would do his best to reply in kind. There had been so many fights before, so long ago...forgotten. Fist against flesh, blade against bone, that was the meaning, and the thrill of a fight. It was a feeling he desperately wanted to remember.

Maximos' fist hit a bundle of spooled muscle, Maximos' fist hit flesh, and as the impact reverberated up his arm it felt like quiet embers dancing on dry timber and tempting the open flame. He remembered the feeling, reveled in it, his heart beat in eager anticipation of what was to follow. As far as quickness went, Max's mind was as keen as a razors edge. He saw Lazenca's hand move up defensively and much like creating a piece of art from the gray outline and fleshing out colors and shading, his mind followed the motion outwards. Dont move backwards, use the momentum and move forward. Duck the head to the side, grip the shoulder, use the other arm to reach around and move forward. Try to toss the larger man off his balance. He saw the return in his minds eye as clear as crystal.

But all of that was just strategy, ideas and planning. And then alot of things happened at once.

First, a flash of bright red burst across Maximos' face filling his vision entirely. His left hand moved like a blur, a big pale palm covered his nose cheeks and forehead where a wash of pain was move out across his skull in wave. Max could taste iron and he involuntarily sneezed a mixture of blood and snot into his own palm as the impact - although light and quick - rocked his head back and shook his balance. Somewhere in the moment he remembered that part of his plan was to grab Lazenca's shoulder, but his body had already done with its natural instincts do and tried to move it away from the pain and Max had without thinking taken a step back. So while his right hand, which hand delivered the punch, was still extended his right hand sort of grabbed weakly at the open air a few inches away from Laz without really making any sort of purchase or serving any sort of purpose other than maybe making an awkward wave.

There are a few martial styles that make use of such diversive tactics, feigning blows or taking hits for an opening, drunken boxing for instance, but Maximos was a practitioner of exactly none of those. His entire strategy had fallen to ruin in seconds, without him successfully executing any of it. As Lazenca would see when blood was clearly visible dripping down Max's lip and no offense was provided against him. The Shadow had just been struck in the face, and that was the whole of it. Max was, without a doubt, an expertly trained combatant. He had studied various martial arts and the usage of various martial weapons - but there was no real studying for the effects not studying for over year, maybe two. Some of it was instinct and remained but how much? How much would come freely, how much memory would be paid for in blood? Only time would tell.

This was a crash course, Lazenca was instructor, the bell was rung, class was in session. Max is dazed, but not down and certainly not out. Assuming Lazenca didnt capitalize on his opponents opening, Max showed no signs of bowing out. He'd take another step back if he could and take a deep breath making the sort of wet sound a person makes when blowing their nose, followed by a gulp, and then bring his fists up near his face with his right fist slightly higher than the left. There was still blood smeared on his lips and the entire middle of his face was bright red through his pale skin in a way that would absolutely promised a fat ugly bruise was coming, but he was smiling as bright as day. Maximos was still absolutely in this.

But he wasnt dumb. Well, he wasnt very dumb. Instead of throwing himself at the beast of man before him, he made a flick of a wave with his left hand, a gesture that silently said, 'More.'

There was a time in Maximos' combat career where he refused to give up ground in a fight, he would duck and deflect but never retreat. That time was over. As Lazenca brought himself back into stance and advanced, Max's first instinct was to take a step back. Then another, smaller step, testing the proverbial waters, finally let Laz enter into arms reach. Max and Laz had two inches of height difference between them, arms reach for one was arms reach for the other in every way that mattered and another backfist flew toward his face.

The first punch hit and make took a step back, and then because it came in such rapid succession, so did the second although it was more to the cheek than the nose proper but close enough for Max to step back again. For the third swing Max's left hand moved in and smacked the fist but not enough to deflect it, yet his head moved automatically back and his left letting it snap at air. Max's mismatched eyes, the left back, the right white, darted back and forth following the line of Mr. Miranda's motion. How he stepped, how fast he swung, the cool comfort he felt with the stance evident on his face. Max ducked two more punches, slapping them as they passed. He couldnt see an opening, he couldnt remember one and this ring didnt go on forever like a certain gigantic stadium with an even bigger water snake as its mascot. He did not want to be cornered. A line of red crept down his nose and Max quickly snorted it back. The irony tang of blood dripped across the back his mouth, the scent of it was something of a call back to a different time. A pleasant reminder.

Lazenca's fist came in and Max didnt strategize, he infact tried his best not to think at all, he just moved. His left hand, up beside his head defensively, made a downward swooping motion. It was sort of like a praying mantis striking its prey, aim to intercept Lazenca's fist by the wrist with his left hand and pull it down where it would be less harmful. Simultaneously Max's right came up and mirrored the wolf, snapping a right backfist at Lazenca's nose. Max's left foot lead, his right foot was behind and instead of preparing himself to dart back, Max pressed forward. If Lazenca surrendered any ground at all, Max would move to take a step forward and fill it - he didnt have a next attack in mind he just meant to keep them in arms reach of each other for as long as he could.

He wasnt going to hit. But it was enough of a small victory to have made Lazenca make a defensive move at all. The wolf was turning, his head ducking the blow. It was a snap of a punch, not the sort of thing Max could just stop midway, but still he had to make a move. His body may have been slow to catch up but he could still read the circumstance. Lazenca was playing it cautious, maybe giving Max a chance to warm up before going in earnestly. If Max spent the entire time on the defensive, reactionary he was going to be in a bad way when it came time to get serious. His mind ran through possibility and strategy, causality, the fundamentals of making an enchantment - but this wasnt work. This was not casual spell craft in his workshop - this was a fight. He focused on the pain, the throbbing across his face, the tickle of blood running back down his nose again. The fight.

He moved.

Lazenca was coming back up and his head would intercept Max's hand, but it wasnt balled in a fist anymore. The gesture of a backfist was already a left to right sort of motion and Max just flowed with it. His open right hand moved out beside Lazenca's head. As Laz recovered his right arm, Max recovered his left and swung it forward, hand open, cupping his palm. His right hand followed suit. Whatever the larger man was planning with that fist, Max could only hope his open hands could move faster. And then both cupped hands came in to clap Lazenca's pointed ears. His attack was something exceptionally basic, taught to women and sometimes children in self defense classes. It was called a Thunderclap Strike, a Cupped Ear Blow or Strike, a Double Slap, Ear Concussive Blow, and a slew more names. But the principle was simple, a double slap to the ears using the cupped hands to send a decent amount of air pressure right down the ear canal avoiding superseding the protection of the skull. For some people it caused nausea and dizziness by messing with the nerves that regiment balance, for others it ruptured the ear drum muffling sound and obviously causing pain, and for yet still others it even created temporary blindness in an eye. The idea was that for most people it created a general state of discombobulation. If this was an assassination, this was when the knife went in. But this was nothing like that. And Max's mind was no where near thoughts of killing. He was just only hoping to would create an opening. There were alot of factors, hand alot of wild hair - but Max didnt really forsee hair getting in the way, Lazenca could be way faster, Max could just outright perform it wrong.

But he didnt really allow himself the time to find out. His follow through was as immediate, as it was simple, and as it was reckless. With any luck his hands were on either side of Lazenca's head now. If they were, he splayed his fingers out getting a decent enough grip and then without a moments hesitation slammed his head forward aiming to smash it into Lazenca's face, nose area. So far Laz had kept him using one arm and by just walking forward. Max was struggling for ground, he couldnt afford to really very clinical with it.

A younger Max would have dived forward drunk on bloodlust. But everyone does foolish things when they're young. The fact of the matter was, Lazenca was his opponent. Lazenca was not his enemy. And that was a very important difference. This was sport, not war. His opponent deserved his respect, not his cruelty. And Laz most certainly had it. A second ago roles were reversed and the Wolf had not brutalized him - Max would not return that kindness with viciousness. He had taken a few steps toward being more like himself since this began, that was a small victory, enough for the moment. This was just starting to feel like a proper fight and not just an exercise in how long he could last before an inevitable defeat.

Also...headbutts hurt. Even done properly there was nothing pleasant about hitting your skull into another skull. Max stumbled for a moment as Lazenca back pedaled and then gathered himself up. He brought his guard up, both hands near his face with his right slightly higher. He gave Laz all the chance he needed to recover. If he was going to win, and that was a huge if, it wouldn't be because he beat a good man while he was down. He had a feeling they were both a bit rusty, although Laz was in better shape, and with a measure of preamble now over they could turn their encounter up a notch and fight more earnestly.

Max would patiently wait for Lazenca to rise, and stance himself. There was not even a hint of impatience on his face, just a smile. Max had every intent on being the opening blow. But it wouldn't be a cheap shot. When the wild haired wolf seemed ready Max would offer the man a nod of confirmation, when he received one in return he advanced. He kept his boxers stance, made a few steps to close the distance and then started off with a right jab to the other man's jaw.

As far as Max could remember, either in his own interactions or in those observed, this was the first time he had ever seen Lazenca smile, much less laugh. The man was an impeccable sort of cool and collected Max had never achieved. The unexpected laugh was, as laughs often are, immediately contagious. Max laughed and let his guard fall entirely. It was a rare, human moment. They would leave here with memories of a good fight and wincing or maybe laughing, but not with grudges. And that's how in his heart, Max knew it should be. And then, in the spirit of that, the laughter faded into focus.

"I'll make the next first move, then," Lazenca stated aloud, even as he remained as still as the cooling air around him.

Max felt the rising preternatural chill in the air, it danced along his arms like the first gentle bite of a stern winter wind. Cold was pervasive, it infiltrated the bone and the marrow. Unlike a roaring fire, the cold didnt wound you instantly. It could, avalanches and thin ice were dangerous to the unsuspecting no doubt. But a blizzard overtook whole nations over time, crops die, bodies wears out their resources trying to keep themselves warm and then slip into hypothermia, frostbite, sometimes cold sleep, and then death. Max imagined the patient man before him was very similar. Passive at first, like the first few flakes of snow or a pristine white covered field at mind day - but no less dangerous than the blizzard that was prelude too.

And Max felt stupid. Allowances for sportsmanship and camaraderie aside, some mistakes are just plain dumb. Max felt one of them immediately. He had been so excited to start this fight that he was acting out of habit and didnt think. He hopped into the ring and what was the very first thing he did? He threw his jacket outside. The jacket was great for holding things, and while it wasnt too restricting it was just common place to remove it because repairing it took a lot of time. And yet here was about to enter into one of the rare instances where it could actually be helpful not as a magical item but as a damn jacket, and it was outside the cage on the floor in a pile looking at him with the accusing sort of stare only an inert but dejected jacket can give.

Not the best start to a fresh round, but he would make do. Max extended his senses out subtly, testing the waters. His right eye, took on a soft white glow . Combat proclivity may have waned but shadowcraft and his preternatural sight was a daily part of his life. Remembering that would be easy, but his equipment - that would be much harder. The majority of Max's arsenal that wasnt swaths of black or shadowy limbs were pieces of weaponry or armor he had gathered over his travels. During every adventure Max tried to find a souvenir of some kind. Some of those ended up enchanted and were added to his repertoire while others became decoration. The memory of those adventures and of those pieces of gear linked him to them and could be used to call them. But only really his favorites. Max didnt have some sword that could negate powers, a reality severing blade, or some unbreakable god aegis, that just wasnt his style. What meager dozen or so pieces he did have were close to him because he enjoyed them, or they had sentimental value and...he hadnt seen most of them in over a year. He could call up their visage, he had done that when the fight started before deciding on his fists, but actually calling them to him was a different story. That required remembering their weight, their feel, the sound they make when slicing air or absorbing a blow.

In preparation Max extended his reach out to them. There were shimmers of subtle midnight blue and royal purple in the air around him, sort of like the slashes of light one would see when looking into cracked glass, there was what seemed to resemble a b*****d sword, a rapier, a dagger pair, two gauntlets, but no solid shapes. Not yet. The seed was there, but it would take the heat of battle to call it out. The shimmers faded.

For the moment he fell on the familiar. Max brought his guard back up, hands up to either side of his face, his right a bit higher than his left, right foot leading. And then he called to the shadows. Shadowcraft was like a communion. The shadows heard him and were attentive, but he had no commands for them just yet. Lazenca would see Max's own shadow and the elongated crisscross pattern cast across the ring as the shadow of the gate surrounding it, waver and warble against the light like cautious snakes before snapping back to their ambient positions. The shadows, like the one who called to them, were ready, patient and eager.