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Description: The next place of combat takes place in the outside venue of Midus City. A stage rests in the middle of a large stone-covered courtyard with light railings over the east and west side of the ring. However, the lights aren't on due to the sun providing enough as it is. Cameramen are standing at different points around the stage with a director sitting and watching at the south part of the stage. The fights that are going to happen this round will be a contribution to the upcoming movie documentary "Martial Artists of Our Time," a collection of fights over the decades that have both entertained and frightened people all around the world. Each fighter has been informed of their filming, including being encouraged to try to look their best for the cameras. Fans cheer from behind their barricades as they get ready to watch the fights that are going to happen on this traditional-looking stage.

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

Always in the freakin' sun...

The dead man snarled as he stepped into the light of day. Even through the shades he had to squint to stave off the burning feeling in his eyes. Bandaged and clothed in black leather and sun-obscuring cloth, he looked like a modern mummy, just as he had with all his matches before this one.

Unpleasant pessimism aside, Iden DeSeer was only barely demoralized. He had clawed and dragged himself through the ranks, facing foes whom he felt were certainly worthy of advancement. To be standing here, distasteful scenery aside, was a mark of pride and a boost to his confidence.

A casual flick of his arm cast his coat open, giving a certain flair as he approached the ring. Blessedly, the crowd of staff and cameramen were kept clear of the fighters, meaning he needn't push his way to his own bout; the young DeSeer's focus was set on the stage, and the fighter already present upon it. She was a foxy girl, in the most literal of senses. A trivial matter, from the looks of it...

...oh dear.

The dead man had drawn close enough to observe the demonstration of skills. The kata was well performed and respectable, but it was not her moves that cast a shadow of doubt across the bandaged brawler's mind. It was the fire that wreathed her hands. Worse than the sun in most every regard, fire was a bitter foe and a painful weakness to a Cainite, and Iden was wary to even step in the ring with a woman who could wield it. Instinct said to flee, while pride said to conquer. Reason dictated that the fights were nonlethal only; he need not fear true death. Yet when fire and daylight were involved, even an innocent accident could result in a conflagration that would claim him in a violent and theatrical end.

Shall we?

Iden spoke in a firm, confident tone. He stepped into the ring, showing no sign of doubt or fear in his posture. It was time to wage war; he could afford no weakness. From behind mirrored lenses peered a frozen stare that remained fixed upon his foe. His cold scrutiny was observing every move she made, every breath she took, and his body shifted in response. His knees bent and his arms lifted, adopting a loose, limber stance meant to be mobile in most every direction save one: he would not retreat, not after having come so far.

((S'kew.))

The woman bowed...respectful, that was a plus. Iden was loathe to fight an uppity punk with no sense of decency.

A nod was the only reply Robyn recieved; the dead man had no more words. His stance adjusted as he began to inch forward. His left foot led, with both arms held in a loose guard to shield both torso and head. The dead man was being cautious; those flickering little flames were an extremely deadly threat to his kind. Every move Robyn made was noted and added to the calculating assessment her foe was making.

Iden's right arm dropped. Snagging something off his belt, Robyn had a moment's warning as the small metal canister fell to the ground. It bounced with a heavy, hollow clank before the world went silent and all things went white. The flashbang would leave a terrible ringing in both fighter's ears, and the poor girl would be lucky to have the chance to avert her gaze in time to not be blinded for a critical few seconds.

The moment the burst faded, Iden's eyes snapped open behind his shades and his body surged forward. Taking the initiative, he took three great steps, putting his right leg forward and his position within striking range. At the end of this long gait came a roundhouse kick thrown from his left leg, directed for the foxy woman's belly. A side kick quickly followed; it was a one-two combination meant to pound the wind from her lungs and knock her to the floor.

((Flashbangs remaining: 2/6, given no resupply since round 1))

The top forced the dead man to pause. His initial kick was met by the pole, which thankfully only stung something fierce and swatted the blow aside. The young DeSeer's whole body whipped around, thrown into a spin by the unexpected counter.

Rather than fighting the sudden momentum, Iden went with it. His balance failed as his leg was swept aside, and his whole body was whirling about in a great circle. Rather than stagger about like a fool, he allowed himself to fall. In doing so, Iden's next pass in his clockwise spiral would slide under the rod. His legs snaked out, and with his hands as a pivoting point, the undead brawler tried to sweep the foxy female from her feet. Spinning like she was, her balance couldn't possibly be too sturdy, and all he needed was a moment to recover and retake the advantage.

Impact. Iden's leg connected, reigniting the throbbing soreness in the limb. Still, his goal was accomplished. Robyn stumbled, and was forced to abandon her staff to maintain her balance.

The dead man's momentum continued, bringing him to rise as the circle completed. Eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation in a flash. Robyn was regaining her posture, and her balance suggested a lunge. There was no time.

Iden quickly knelt, scooping up the fallen staff in his left hand. Bent knees gave him power, which he cashed in on by pushing forwards. He lunged, meeting Robyn's charge with the rod held horizontally before his chest. With it, he parried her first flaming strike; instinct already was screaming to flee as the claws were narrowly pushed away by the staff. This took both his hands away, however, leaving his left flank undefended...the second blow landed in a wound that normally would have been shrugged aside, but for the flames that licked at flesh and bone hungrily.

PANIC OHGODOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOW!!!!

Fire was among the most feared devices a man could wield against a Cainite. Here Iden was, being burned by a merry inferno in the palm of the girl's hand. The young DeSeer's eyes widened in shock and barely contained terror; his whole body tensed as panic surged through his mind.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-

The single loud expletive became less a word, and more a primal roar. No longer were his actions measured in cold, calculating strikes and precise maneuvers. Blood screamed through his veins, pounding heavily and blurring his sight a deep vermilion as muscle and bone hardened and amplified in power. Robyn had struck a terrible blow, but in turn she had awoken something fearsome.

With unnatural speed the dead man's left elbow lashed out, bashing at her head with force enough to snap it back and cause painful whiplash. Without pause a second blow came from his right, following the first with a hay maker such a light opponent could nary hope to block; it was a steel-shod fist that could floor a man and leave his vision swimming and his mind scrambled.

The one two was merely to make distance. All inertia was ignored as the berserker channeled the powers of undead Potence and Celerity at once, meaning the next hammer blow struck like lightning, in all its speed and fury. A left hook to the ribs was next. Then, the dead man advanced, using the stolen rod as a cudgel with which he would pound the poor girl into oblivion. He was heedless of any danger; either she was removed from the equation fast, or the fire would come back, bringing more abject terror into play.

((He's holding it. Yes, the moves are awkward, but he's putting a lot of raw speed and strength to compensate. PM sent to clarify.))

My oh my, the woman's lithe frame held exceptional power. Blocking his blows was one thing, and there was little doubt that she would hurt for it. But catching them and keeping her footing, when the dead man threw his fell might into his swings? Impressive. Were he cooler in the head, Iden would be impressed. Now? He was merely desperate.

His ribs were screaming in horrid agony, scarred by the fires of the woman's claws. It was fortunate for Iden that she could not do the same to his hand; it was shod in well worn leather and steel. The flames scarred the gauntlets, but if the outer skin failed, the metal within would remain unaffected. The pair stood in violent deadlock; his haymaker had done nothing, yet her claws were stopped by the only armor he wore.

Beneath his mask of bandages, Iden grimaced. His frenzy had not yet subsided, and the flames were licking dangerously close to his face. Fear is what drove him now; sheer terror for his own existence written into every fiber of his being. As the woman tensed to lash out with her knee, so too did the dead man force an offensive.

Her hand was grasping his knuckles. It was a poor choice; from behind his knuckles ripped twin blades. So sudden was their appearance that she would have no time to react. Her hand would be impaled upon his claws.

Pain wracked his gut. Her knee slammed into his belly with stunning force. Easily sufficient to wind a man, yet Iden did not pause. There was no air in his lungs, he need not breathe to do battle.

What this did was put her weight upon one leg. This was a mistake. Iden surged forward, throwing all of his weight onto his opponent. Robyn would be hard pressed to escape, given two factors. One was that her hand was impaled upon Iden's claws; every move of her arm would only serve to further maim and cripple the appendage. The second was the sheer suddenness of the rush; one moment the dead man was stood still, the next it was as if he'd had a running start. Inertia was thrown to the winds by the undead powers of Celerity, allowing him to throw every ounce of weight and strength into a body blow meant to bowl the poor girl over. With only one foot on the ground, she could hardly resist...and then he would begin ripping and tearing like a savage with claws and fangs until the burning ceased.

Rather than falling upon her foe, the dead man was slung over and away by the deft maneuver. Landing heavily, he was scrambling to his feet as quickly as he hit the deck. His usual graceful roll was gone, replaced by a mad scrabble to his feet. Some sanity was returning to his posture, though; the burning was subsiding, replaced by a terrible numbness along his side. Gritting his teeth, he felt both ashamed and invigorated at once. This was certainly a fight, though not quite what he had expected coming in.

His advance was without pause; he needed to be relentless, to drive her back if he was going to achieve victory. Knowing she could throw fire, hand to hand was the best option. Thus, he surged forward in another assault, leading with his left arm in a lunge punch that drew his blades dangerously close to the woman's ribs. This was a feint; a short jab given just enough weight to lure the girl in. The obvious defense would be to parry or dodge inward to claw at him with more of the hated flames. Either would end in him grabbing at anything that he could, be it clothes, limbs, even the flaming fingers themselves. He was attempting to draw her into a second, far more powerful blow to the midsection, one which would gut the poor girl and hammer the breath from her lips. Should she be suitably winded, the foxy lady would be easy prey.