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~In the Hotel~

The Khasmin warrior sat on his bed, his equipment laid out on the floor. His face a calm mask as he took the small roll of tape from his bag and began to tape each finger as he deemed fit. The room was dark outside of a few, faint slivers of light that shone in from between the blinds, casting a pale, ethereal pall about the room.

No TV garble or pre-fight coverage. It was off and had been for the past few hours that Deitric had been awake. Same with the radio and lights. They weren't needed.

...

He finished taping up the fingers of his other hand that needed it before tossing the roll back into his bag, picking up the white, sleeveless shirt from the things he'd laid out on the floor before pulling it on over his head. He rolled his shoulders while he prepared, looking over the array of items he'd set out on the floor in front of his bed. He took his jacket next, slipping it on before zipping up the front.

That left his weapons, and his armor. The twin tomahawks lay size by side on the carpet, a beam of light casting a gleam over their blades. The fighter shook his head and took the two weapons, along with his knife and gunstock club and put them in his leather brigadine chestpiece and cinching it tightly with one of his extra belts - he only wore one today, since he had no reason to wear the other that normally holstered his tomahawks.

A pact is a pact.. No weapons, no armor. It's what I wanted anyways, the tribesman smiled grimly as he pulled the belt tighter before locking it with the buckle, picking it up by the slack left before standing up.

I'll bring it, though. At least that way if I win or lose.. I won't have to come back here.

The warrior walked out, grabbing the small, jade pendant from the counter before stuffing it into his pocket with his free hand, carrying his belongings along over his shoulder. It was all he had, anyways - no home, nothing but what he had on his body and what he carried. That and the Rune motercycle, anyways.

~At the Tenkai Stadium~

The path on the way to the finals was clear, but lined with a bustling crowd, kept back by a handful of watchful guards. The faces in the crowd were ecstatic, shifting and moving like some sort of giant, liquid animal to try and get a better look at the first finalist to make his way to the stage. Deitric was silently thankful for his shades - the camera-flashes were almost too often and too bright to do anything but blind his turquoise eyes.

The crowd thinned considerably though, as the red-skinned fighter made his way through a long tunnel - the entrance to the arena proper. He pulled off his shades, throwing them to the side in the darkened, earthen tunnel he stood in. He didn't need them for the fight. He hefted up the bag and tossed it forward, just outside of the entrance. It'd be near the judge's so he could get it afterwards, but no where near the room, so no one would be tempted to use the equipment within.

The warrior took a deep breath and stepped forward into the light of day, his eyes squinted against the bright luminescence. As soon as he stepped from the dark tunnel the crowds cheered, and somewhere, a hired band erupted into a frenzy of playing over the loud-speakers. Guitar riffs churned and drum-beats shook the earth around him. It was impressive to say the least.



Deitric didn't pause, raising both fists up to the crowed as he made his way forward quickly, his pace determined and confident. One boot went up, catching on the top of the stone platform and the fighter pushed off, throwing himself up onto the tenkaichi arena. His squinted eyes took in the crowd around him as he walked the ring quickly, the undulations of the crowd over-taking the band, who had now died away.

The warrior unzipped the front of his leather jacket and pulled it off, throwing it off to the side. The piece of clothing fluttered for a moment before landing just outside the arena. He clenched and unclenched his hands slowly, his left arm a controlled mess of black, tribal thorns etched into his skin, though his right arm remained untouched. The crowd began to settle again as they waited for the next fighter to make his way out.

Deitric was ready for when he came, standing in the center of the arena.

Deitric watched his opponent enter with the typical impassive, near analytical mask he wore be it in a fight or out of one - rarely had that mask slipped to reveal any emotion other than happiness or humor. When Omi approached him - not in any sort of offensive maneuvering, it seemed - the fighter did smile, the skin around his turquoise eyes crinkling to shadow them beneath his brow.

"I see that you have - as have I," he responded politely, motioning to where a pile of equipment lay - well out of reach of either of them. Near the judges' panel, it would have taken more than a ten count to get there, get an item, and come back, especially considering any interference that might've come from either fighter.

Deitric's own hand moved out and took Omi's for a moment in a firm grasp, his head tilting almost imperceptibly in a nod of respect.

"Then realize that the same goes for me," the warrior's almost tranquil voice answered before he let go of Omi's hand, taking a few steps back, bringing his hands up in a loose guard, his right side just barely forward in comparison to his left, suggesting that Deitric was ambidextrous at best, and a south-paw at worst.

The tribesman knew his typical faux-charge tactic wouldn't work against the man before him, and instead he began to circle-- waiting. While he had the longer reach, he didn't seek to attack just quite yet. Deitric didn't worry about the time it might take to finish the match - war had bred a honed sense of patience in him, and he rarely threw caution to the wind. Like a snake, the warrior could shift and rear back until the perfect time to attack. Right now wasn't that time - he'd move and see what Omi did, first.

The Khasmin fighter's facial expression didn't change when his opponent took an odd stance, instead he only kept moving. He'd seen weirder stances and responses.

When his slow, smooth gait took him just outside the pinky of his opponent's outstretched hand - well in Omi's range of vision - Deitric would quickly lashed out with his right hand. For all intents and purposes, it looked as if he were going to punch Omi's extended fist. His stance and form changed little; he hadn't put any weight or power into the attack - it seemed more likely he was trying to draw Omi out of the stance and into a fight.

?!

The warrior didn't pause as his opponent burst into motion - he had started forward already. It was rare a punch ever went on alone, like anyone else, the tribesman was familiar with the one-two combo, and that was what he'd intended to do here. His opponent had other plans, however.

"Hrgk.."


He'd moved forward with his right to step in closer when Omi's leg swooped in under his outstretched right arm. Deitric's was caught in his forward movement as the other finalist's lower shin caught him just in the ribs with a resounding smack of flesh on flesh - nothing broke as the kick was "shorter" than it should have been, but from the looks of it it must've hurt. Deitric couldn't afford the luxury of nursing his pain or acknowledging it. Turquoise eyes narrowed under his brow in pain, but he didn't stop. Beneath the shirt he wore, a bruise would probably already be forming over his ribs.

His right arm had just begun to retract, but instead he clinched it tight around the man's leg - the distance or speed wasn't even worth mentioning, the offending limb had slammed into his body where his arm normally lay anyways. The underside of his forearm would be pressed against Omi's calf, his hand digging into the fabric for purchase.

At the same time, his originally intended attack continued forward - he accepted the kick and retaliated with his free hand, aiming to rocket his left fist forward to try and smash home against the center of Omi's face; his nose. Just as he loosed his punch across the small distance between them, the warrior's left foot would come forward to accommodate for the outreaching punch so he could put his weight behind it, slamming down on the ground - or, rather Omi's right foot.

Deitric had one advantage - raw, physical power. If his fist struck home, his opponent would hopefully be forced to lurch back with his upper-body in response from the attack. The Khasmin fighter was easily the largest human combatant in the tournament - he weighed in just a couple pounds over two-fifty, and when he punched, he punched hard. If his opponent was off-balance, the Khasmin would only continue his assault - raining punches down where-ever was close enough to present itself as a target on Omi's body.

Deitric's fist was pushed aside, clear from Omi's face and across his own chest towards the right. A growl rattled in the warrior's throat, and suddenly he found his opponent coming forward (as best he could, anyways, with both legs trapped) to headbutt him. That most certainly looked grim for the man from Khasmin--

--But the headbutt was going to meet a road-block of the owner's own making.

With his oncoming fist pushed aside, his arm had gone across his chest. Omi's hand had struck firmly against Deitric's forearm with a slapping echo, leaving his arm crossed over his own chest. Now, Omi was coming forward, with his hand still most likely on Deitric's offending limb.

The tribesman snarled as he snapped his left arm swiftly at the elbow while torquing his upper-body a little to his right, his forearm coming back closer to his own body while his elbow struck forward. The force of his arm's movement would have been enough, but the fighter sought to add a little more power to it.

With any luck, that meant the oncoming Omi was going to eat a feral elbow-smash right to the throat from Deitric's left arm, Omi's forward momentum combined with Deitric's own movements making for a surprisingly hellish - if impromptu - counter. At the very most, if he didn't catch it in the throat, it'd hopefully hit him in the face somewhere. Right after, the Khasmin warrior would straighten his arm at the elbow and aim to swing his arm out wide, hopefully smacking Omi right across the head with his out-swinging forearm.

Thud--

Deitric's elbow didn't hit the throat, but instead impacted against the center of Omi's collarbone, just below the throat. The man's chin had knocked the attack down, but not enough to pin it between their bodies. The elbow strike was harder to re-direct than the punch had been - the limb being used was shorter and easier to lock into place with his shoulder muscles, and a chin had less force than a palm strike. The red-skinned fighter had torqued his upper body to the right to give the blow some force, and in doing so had also put a few more inches between Omi's head and his own.

The attack might've lost some of its force, but it still struck, and still served its purpose--

..Omi's headbutt had been halted roughly half of Deitric's arm-reach away with the fighter's elbow stuck against the center of his collar-bone. While the elbow had been an attack, that hadn't been the primary purpose - it was only meant to stop the smaller finalist from getting his head equated to Deitric's own.

Without pausing, Deitric jacked up his own elbow, bringing his hand low, his elbow rising to try and catch Omi under the jaw and force him back further with the surprise attack. It wasn't particularly powerful, but it didn't need to be - the underside of the jaw was tender. With any luck, it would be enough to force Omi to look up and possibly lurch back while the warrior shifted his arm to the lift a little to press his forearm against Omi's throat to force him back even further. With any luck, this would set up Omi for the next move, since he couldn't very well look down.

At the same time, the fighter decided to take a risk - at this rate, they were going to stay at a stand-still. Despite the fact he was larger, the tribesman was still fast - especially when it came to striking. Just as he jacked his elbow up, he pistoned his left knee up with as much force as he could manage to strike Omi between the ribs and the hip - the soft portion of the abdomen where no bones lay to protect the organs, flesh and fat contained there.

As soon as the punishing blow connected (if it did), his foot would come back down heel first, aiming to stomp down on Omi's foot again. Omi could move his foot to avoid it, but in doing so might force himself to lose his balance with Deitric's arm pushing into his neck as it should of been. It was hard to say what would happen, and Deitric was being constantly forced to re-examine and improvise at every turn.

Deitric's foot slammed down, but when he found he'd landed more on the tip of a boot than atop a foot, he quickly let his foot slip to the ground for a more solid footing on the instep of Omi's own while his left hand clenched some of the man's shirt in his grasp - better to keep the arm in place, anyways. That didn't help much with what Omi did, though - the motions of stomping and getting pulled were too close together for him to really adjust in time.

His right side lurched abruptly - the shoulder was already close to Omi, but pulling it closer didn't help things. While his elbow had lost its placing, he managed to keep his fore-arm against Omi's neck while his hand held onto the man's shirt. His right foot slid forward in response to adjust to the change, but it didn't keep them balanced enough to remain entirely standing.

And if his opponent wanted to go down, Deitric would be more than happy to help him. The tribesman kept his stance wide and bent low at the waist to keep from tipping forward, his right arm pulling tight on the leg while he pushed down hard with his left arm. Using the leg he had, he was going to lift it up while pushing with his fore-arm, using his opponent's body like a lever - lower body up, upper-body down.

He was aiming to slam the smaller fighter down head and shoulders first into the ground, while catching the finalist's neck in between a rock and a hard place - specifically, with the force of Deitric's downward force through his forearm and the arena's stone flooring. It didn't have quite the same force as a strike, but it could still do some damage to the fragile throat, not to mention the rock that would hopefully become acquainted with the back of Omi's head.

Once - and if - he slammed the other fighter home, Deitric would do his best to dis-engage - releasing the right leg to smash his arm hard against the one gripping his shoulder to free it while lunging back, putting space between them as quickly as he could manage.