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"Back in the same miserable arena," Nierro muttered as he walked out onto the blood-stained sands of battle for a second time. The outcome of his previous match came as no surprise but he found the avenue disappointing. Nothing changed as far as he could tell. He was in the same simple stadium erected for the same simple purpose.

Bloodshed.

In return he gave the audience the same simple entrance as before. He sensed the pitch of frenzy within the masses had escalated since he last stepped foot on those sands. He could feel the thrum of energy in the air, vibrations of a hundreds of voices screeching for blood. No doubt they anticipated an even greater spectacle in the second round from all the combatants that remained. The weak had been purged so only monsters remained. They would soon find out who was the baddest beast of all.

Nierro's lips cracked in a wicked half-grin at the thought, the left half of his face concealed by tightly-wrapped bandages that left only his piercing yellow eye exposed, brimming with malice. The bandages wrapped around his neck, but otherwise Nierro came out of his previous match largely unscathed. Not that it mattered, for the winners received ample medical attention. Nierro chose to wear the bandages as a mark of pride and shame.

And besides, though the flesh had healed the skin remained wrinkled and mottled. He wanted to spare his admirers the sight. He was a vain b*****d.

"NEIRROOOOO!"

The announcer's voice boomed, gleefully mispronouncing Nierro's name. Nierro chuckled, continuing his approach to the center of the arena.

He wore the same outfit as before in the spirit of eschewing change. A black leather jacket, black slacks, black boots, drab, unimpressive, most of all functional. He had his twin saber swords at his sides, and next to their sheaths the same pair of hatchets nestled into loops on his crisscrossed belts. He had grown more accustomed to the din of the crowd as he wisely kept his wolfish ears tipped forward. His bushy silver tail curled up in anticipation of his new prey.

Nierro knew nothing about his prey, never bothering to catch any of the fights or listen to much of what any of the fans around the hotel had to say when he could avoid it. He only hoped he had been matched up against the velocity master because of how unbeatable the man's rabid fans insisted he was.

He came to a stop about fifteen feet from the center of the arena facing the opposite side. He placed his hands idly on the sheaths of his swords just underneath the crossguards. He stood and waited, a savage grin painted on half-bandaged face.

Give me blood. His fierce yellow eyes demanded.

Give me blood and I will give you a show worthy of this miserable arena.

Nierro could smell him long before he saw him. The acrid scent of death saturated the air.

"Oh?" The halfbreed gradually turned his gaze to the source moments before the audience found him. He saw a man shrouded in darkness, seeping malice, and drawing the last breath of life from a pitiful maiden, her lips the color of blood.

Blood.

Nierro's grin stretched, slipping into madness. The arena had answered his demands and summoned a worthwhile foe, the kind of monster who could sacrifice an innocent before strolling out onto the sands to do battle as if to make a statement to all who bore witness.

None of you are safe.

Yet out onto the sands he strolled, his cold glare focused on Nierro and Nierro alone--and Nierro was not receiving the message. The flicker of ferocity in his beastly yellow eyes answered the man's challenge with more than defiance. He had a message of his own for his opponent.

You are the one stuck in this cage with me.

The man discarded one set of weapons in favor of another, a pair of gladii. Nierro silently rejoiced in the fact that he could now enjoy a proper duelist's match, blade-on-blade. Better than an opponent who abandoned his weapon in favor of slinging fireballs his way.

Then again, the man chose to toss a pair of swords aside as if to make another statement, and a foolish one at that. Given the smoky haze surrounding his spartan form, Nierro surmised the cruel warrior had some kind of power to augment his skills. No matter, as Nierro felt confident he would demonstrate the wide gulf in technique between the two of them.

As the man drew his gladii, Nierro mirrored the motion and drew his twin swords. The swords possessed long, elegantly curved blades of shining silver--the blades composed of a mix of carbon steel and silver, in case his foe might have some magical aversion to the shimmering substance. Normally swords of that length, on par with a longsword or katana, were better wielded with two hands. The way Nierro effortlessly slipped them from their scabbards with a flourish made it clear he could swing them just as deftly with one hand each.

The gladii, in comparison, sacrificed reach for brutal speed and methodical efficiency. Versatile and remarkably adequate for killing. As a traveling swordsman seeking greater challenges, Nierro faced their like before and he had a plan to neutralize their strengths. Of course his opponent made the odd choice of planting one firmly in the ground, a sure sign of trickery and deceit if Nierro ever saw one. He would have to take a risk in his initial approach, but that only made the upcoming battle more interesting.

The man's threat elicited a chuckle from the half-wolf's lips and spurred him to life. He advanced with casual bravado in his retort.

"You'll be dead," Nierro said, his voice terminating in a raspy growl. He walked forward in no apparent hurry, but as he quickly closed the short distance between to come within two steps of his own effective sword range, he sprung forth like a shot from a cannon.

He took a step forward like lightning with his left foot as the blade in his left hand swept down in a low arc, the edge near the tip colliding with the gladius stuck in the ground where the blade met the hilt. Nierro's sword then immediately rose sharply upward. Given Nierro's own admirable strength and precise technique, and the fact that the arena floor itself had been constructed to be very resistant to damage, he would easily fling the gladius far off to Ertai's right, placing it twenty feet away from both fighters.

The man was foolish enough to discard so many weapons, and Nierro was happy to oblige him in separating him from his little arsenal. This is where he took a grave risk, however, given the unknown nature of his opponent's abilities. Though the hilt of his own sword insulated him reasonably well against shock, the damned thing could explode, boomerang back, or for some reason become completely immovable.

That hardly mattered in that very moment because Nierro had unleashed a two-fold attack in the space of a breath, his right foot immediately stepping in front of the left as he thrust the tip of his right sword at his opponent's right wrist. He calculated the motion so that he would have just enough reach to impale his opponent's right wrist, thus putting him about a step out of the gladius' reach.

Then again his opponent would more than likely step in, but with the thrust Nierro would pivot his hips to bring his left side back. This gave power to the thrust and swiftly brought his lefthand blade back into his guard, his hand at about waist level with the tip of the blade angled up to point at his foe's throat.

All in the space of a mere gasp from the crowd as the action began in earnest!

When Nierro placed his right foot forward, his opponent responded with a step of his own.

Thus the waltz began.

Even in the intensity of that explosive fraction of a second, Nierro allowed himself a satisfied smirk as brief as a heartbeat. All too familiar with this dance was he, and his opponent had kindly offered him an invitation to demonstrate his sinister grace for the entire crowd of blood-hungry spectators. Nierro's eerie yellow eyes tracked the shadowy man's movement unerringly. Ertai might have time to reflect then as their eyes met that either time had inexplicably slowed around them or this ignorant halfbreed inexplicably possessed preternatural foresight.

The real answer proved far more simple.

The real question in that fleeting moment was whether Ertai could move himself into position quicker than Nierro could simply retract his arm from the thrust he had intentionally launched at maximum reach. Distance became Nierro's shield, carefully constructed and calculated. Call him arrogant, but it would be unwise to call Nierro inexperienced. He knew how the gladius worked as well as he knew his own weapons. He knew his own apparent weakness, and Ertai seized on the opportunity as Nierro expected--as Nierro had experienced before in younger days, harsh lessons learned in blood and pain.

The half-wolf's right elbow bent and he pulled back his arm as quickly as he extended it while Ertai took his aggressive step. Effortlessly, Nierro pivoted, knees like springs, dancing on the balls of his feet as his left foot took a passing step forward and around to Ertai's right, mirroring the warlord's own footwork so seamlessly and beautifully an audible gasp escaped the crowd.

Shhrrkk!!

The sound of metal scraping against metal rang through the air, sparks spraying like starbursts as the flat of Nierro's righthand blade closest to the crossguard met the edge of the gladius. He caught his foe's weapon on the portion of his own blade referred to as the strong where he exerted the most control. A textbook parry, and Nierro made it look as easy as a casual wave of his arm. He felt no pressure in the exchange, his body loose, light, and devoid of any tension.

And not only did the two fighters dance, but so did Nierro's twin blades, working in perfectly orchestrated unison. Nierro twirled his lefthand blade in a flash of silver. Simultaneous to the step, his lefthand blade lashed out at Ertai. He hardly had a chance to acknowledge the failure of his attack, for even as gladius met saber the sharp edge of its sister came slicing through the air towards the right side of his skull, right on the temple.

That kind of cut could easily split the top of a man's skull clean off, but Nierro pulled the strike back, hit or miss, so that if it struck true it would only cleave a deep gash into the side of Ertai's head. The sharp edge of steel itself would hit with enough force to knock a lesser man out cold. Drawing the blade back in a slicing motion would also serve to aggravate the wound as the half-wolf pulled the sword back into his guard, all with one swipe of his arm.

Not only the swords, but Nierro's entire body worked as one finely tuned instrument. The step and the twist of his hips gave raw, inhuman power not only to his strike but also to his guard to keep Ertai's own weapon at bay. Ertai would have had only his free hand to try and defend himself, committed in that same frame of time to his initial strike. That same hand dipped curiously into his overcoat instead.

Nierro relished in the demonstration of his own ability. He did not swing his twin blades wildly in wide, reaping slashes as they might have expected, but he captivated the audience all the same. Regardless, he knew better than to think the battle had already been won. His bushy tail swished behind him, allowing him to maintain an uncanny level of balance so he could keep moving. Ertai still clearly knew how to move and capitalize on any opening, so Nierro had to keep moving to leave his opposition flustered.

Nierro could sense that Ertai also had some tricks up his sleeve, literally, but whatever trump card he had came with a great deal of risk from the way he exposed himself to Nierro's furiously swift counterattack.

!

In the awestruck silence that fell over the arena, the sound of Ertai's boot stomping on packed dirt reverberated through Nierro's wolfish ears deep into his skull. The world became still for a brief eternity as the halfbreed's vision came into sharper focus. He saw then the image of a dark specter sweep in front of him, reaching out with its gnarled claw to seize his wrist so that it could strike the restrained limb like a guillotine with its bloodstained cleaver.

In that moment Nierro glimpsed Ertai's eyes and saw the emptiness of a monster.

No fear. No mercy.

Nierro's heart skipped a beat. For all his impressive prowess, Nierro was a mere mortal after all. His greatest weakness, and his greatest strength.

For in that brief eternity when stunning revelation nearly gave way to panic, the half-wolf's indomitable survival instinct blended with his mastery of the sword. One technique flowed into another, from offense to defense to offense, as the dance would continue, rapidly increasing in intensity.

Ertai's step inwards was Nierro's first signal that he had been drawn into a vicious trap, but all too late as Ertai's remarkable hand speed sprung the trap. The warlord expertly deflected Nierro's blade with a hidden metal plate in his glove, judging by the sound of the scrape and the vibrations that rippled through the sword. That same hand then lunged at Nierro's wrist, even as the alert half-wolf tried to recoil his hand with even greater urgency.

As a result Ertai managed to land a tenuous grip as Nierro attempted to twist his wrist away. That hardly mattered as Ertai had a firm enough grasp to keep Nierro from pulling his arm away from the follow-up strike. The bloodthristy cleaver dropped down like a beast jaw's shutting tight to snap its prey in two.

And so, again, footwork became the key. Yet again Nierro made a step to mirror his opposition, though for all his speed it did not come quite soon enough.

Nierro's leading left foot skipped forward and slightly to Ertai's right in a stuttering sidestep, forcing a bend in his left elbow. It came as a pure reflex to Ertai's vice-like grip. Rather than try to fight in a competition of strength to pull his arm away, Nierro made a split-second reaction honed through rigorous training. This allowed Nierro to use the weight of his whole body to push his arm in as the elbow bent naturally. Thus his arm acted as a lever so that his lefthand blade swayed back in an arc away from Ertai.

In that same time the edge of the gladius managed to slash a wicked gash down the side of Nierro's wrist and forearm, scraping against bone. The sleeve of Nierro's leather jacket provided enough resistance to prevent deep penetration beyond the skin, and within the next instant after the edge of the gladius made contact Nierro's wrist rolled around in Ertai's grip and out of line of the strike thanks to the movement of Nierro's entire body.

With quick thinking and a single step, Nierro managed to mitigate the damage of an otherwise critical blow and position himself safely to Ertai's right flank. The damage to his wrist would not leave him without some degree of difficulty in controlling his weapon, but he felt happy to give his opponent an ounce of blood in exchange for a pound of flesh.

As he made the quick shifting step, his righthand blade twirled in his hand to snap out like a whip in an overhead strike.

"HAA!" The half-wolf roared.

It was a savage, brutal chopping motion with the edge of the blade aimed to rake down Ertai's face like a claw--or simply his head if he had the sense to turn away. Given their proximity he would most likely strike with the strong of his blade. Rather than the lethal cleaving strength of the previous strike, the razor sharp steel could impact with enough force to crack the skull. The strike came with a violent twist of his hips that allowed him to wrench his wrist free of Ertai's grasp, rendered awkward by the half-wolf's rapid change in position.

Nierro drew his scimitar-like blade back again in a fluid arc to spill as much blood as possible from the potential wound. Given the sudden nature of his retaliation, he expected a solid cut to Ertai's crown that would leak blood down his brow, stinging his eyes. His left hand would remain at about waist level, the sword pointing out to Nierro's right as he swiveled around to face Ertai, left foot forward, right foot sliding back.

He now used Ertai's own body as his shield, a fact that brought a smug smirk to his face despite the grave danger he had only narrowly avoided.

Thus came the graceful flourish to the first crimson note of their waltz.

Nierro's lips curled back and he gnashed his fangs together in a predatory grin as the scimitar swept forward like a reaper's scythe. He could taste the blood the moment he settled into position to deliver his strike. He thirsted for it as his lungs thirsted for the air itself.

But that air grew cold around them all at once, and Nierro felt the chill of death down his spine.

The true battle for survival had only just begun, and Nierro had awakened a sleeping dragon wreathed in black smoke.

Sword scratched bone, the silver talon tearing flesh with a satisfying sound, and yet the sinking feeling of imminent desolation remained. In the very same instant Nierro caught a blur of movement in the corner of his good eye. The second gladius!

On instinct his body swayed back, and the two fighters separated. Sword and gladius shared a fleeting embrace, and their metallic ring echoed through the wide arena.

Nierro skipped back a step, his twin blades angled out at his sides, his pointed ears rigid as he focused on his opposition. Ertai had earned a rare manner of respect from Nierro, reserved only for those warriors who could match both his skill and ferocity--or even surpass him. Ertai's power of telekinesis certainly gave Nierro pause, but to this point the warlord never relied on his psychic abilities to keep pace with Nierro. That alone warranted a degree of admiration.

It represented a shift in the pace of the battle, and for Nierro it felt as if he teetered on the precipice of his own demise.

So he grinned.

His left arm twitched in pulses of burning agony as blood dripped from his wrist to form little crimson pools on the dirt. His beastly yellow eyes remained locked on Ertai as if in a trance as the warlord turned back around to face him.

Nierro grinned like a savage fool then at the sight of Ertai's face slick with blood as black as his heart. Not the color he expected, but more than enough to leave him satisfied. Satisfied, but he craved more. More. More!

Yet Nierro remained still, practically obedient, as Ertai traded a coat of authoritarian fabric for a coat of crawling smoke. The warlord seized his weapons in his hands, ready to advance like a plague, poised with vengeance.

All the while Nierro grinned, steadying himself like a patient hunter. Some members of the crowd became delirious with the vision of a massive snarling silver wolf perched behind Nierro, and the vision became etched deep into their fearful hearts. There was no dire wolf actually looking over Nierro's shoulder, for the monster lied within Nierro himself, in the very look he gave his opponent as the two faced each other to resume their bloody reverie.

Then Ertai surged forward, all too fast for even the agile half-wolf to follow, or so it seemed. The gladius collided with Nierro's righthand sword sharply, forcing the divide that gave Ertai precisely the opening he desired. With his face left exposed for a fraction of a second, Nierro let a soft sound of surprise escape his lips.

"Ha-"

In practically the same instant the gladius snapped up in a rending strike, the very edge of its length biting into the pale skin of the half-wolf's neck a mere inch from severing the jugular before Nierro started to float away like a feather on the breeze.

The gladius managed to slice across Nierro's neck and chin as Ertai desired, but he would very quickly realize that Nierro desired the same outcome. A necessary sacrifice of blood to appease the god.

For those watching very, very closely in the audience noticed that as soon as Ertai attacked, Nierro's leading right foot shifted back a step. The blade in his right hand twirled away in the same manner to roll right back into his guard taking advantage of the momentum of the parry. That soft sound of surprise turned into a howl of laughter.

"HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAA!"

Infected with a raving lunatic's laughter, Nierro's pumped his arms forward rapidly in a series of thrusts faster than the average spectators' eye could follow, all aimed within the vicinity of Ertai's chest, throat, and especially his face.



He used his step back to gain the distance he needed right as Ertai planted himself for his own vicious attack. This alone did not guarantee Nierro's safety from Ertai's blades, but Ertai would find it very difficult to continue to advance without impaling himself, or to strike Nierro without one of Nierro's own blades suddenly sliding in the way.

At the same time the sheer velocity and multitude of Nierro's thrusts granted him a far greater chance of shredding Ertai's exposed shoulders, throat, and face--hardly enough to incapacitate outright, but more than enough to rip the muscles in the chest and shoulders, brutally sapping the strength of Ertai's own strikes.

But in the midst of the chaos of flashing steel, Nierro intentionally aimed his most precise thrust of all to split the warlord's trademark cigar right down the middle along with the pursed lips holding it in place. Even if it meant he made every other thrust for naught, Nierro gathered all of his focus in that one particular act.

Judging by the wild glint in his fearless yellow eyes, Nierro had no intention of backing away, drawn to Ertai now like a moth to flame--the flame that burns all life to ash.



| > [Blade Technique]: Coolddown (1/2)

It's over.

The words crossed Nierro's mind in the breadth of a heartbeat as Ertai stomped in, ripping the flesh of his cheek along the blood-slick edge of Nierro's righthand sword. The two fighters locked eyes full of fire and fury as they each came one step from the edge of obliteration. And in that moment, where before his countenance has been marked by grim concentration, Nierro's lips slipped into a nearly imperceptible crooked smile.

The inevitable followed.

Ertai abandoned his gladii to the arena sands at their feet. Nierro felt no comfort in this small fact, as no mere mortal under such a furious assault would throw down his own weapons voluntarily without a cry of surrender. Ertai had the look of a conqueror in his eyes, surrender the furthest thought from his dangerous mind. Nierro knew in that instant that Ertai's retaliation would come as suddenly and brilliantly as a flash of lightning cracking across a pitch black night sky.

Nierro caught the glint of metal on the very fringe of his vision, somewhere below, as Ertai's hands shifted forward. Another pair of blades sprung up at Nierro like fangs, an all too familiar circumstance. Only one kind of fighter ever charged forward against Nierro's onslaught of rapid thrusts; the suicidal. It was an act of desperation in lesser men, but in Ertai it was a display of pure dominance. He had no reason to fear for his life. No reason to flinch.

The butterfly swords cut through the air as they rocketed towards Nierro's exposed body to put a definite end to the fight in the most savage manner possible.

But, midway through the motion of his dual strike, Ertai would notice his window of opportunity shrink rapidly.



Ertai's sleight of hand never escaped Nierro's sight.

Even in his periphery, Nierro managed to roughly follow the movements of Ertai's arms, the flicker of steel as he telekinetically unsheathed his butterfly swords to seize them in his hands as they hooked forward. That was enough for Nierro to discern the outcome.

Nierro's assault became his defense as he always intended, using himself as the bait the lure in his prey. The thrusts drew the unstoppable warlord in as Nierro expected all along. He played right into Ertai's expectations of his own youthful arrogance under the pretense of becoming intoxicated by the madness probing his mind.

He had been pumping his arms like pistons in a series of alternating thrusts. Given the reach of his weapons, he never left his arms extended very far, and certainly not for very long. The power of this honed technique always lied in the speed of not only the thrust itself, but Nierro's ability to retract the blades to deliver another thrust, and another.

More importantly, each time Nierro did make contact with his opponent he could feel the pressure or lack thereof against his blade.

He did not need to think. He did not even need to see. He only needed to feel.

He could feel the press of weight against the blades as Ertai stepped in. He could feel the tide of battle threaten to turn as Ertai loomed in front of him. He could feel Ertai's murderous intent in his very posture.

So by the time Ertai swung his arms to deliver the crippling twofold blow, Nierro simply cut any subsequent thrusts short, trivially pulling his arms inward as his upper body swayed back. Then his hips jolted to the left as his body smoothly transitioned into into a sudden strafing step.

He earned a crimson sash for his efforts as Ertai's hooking right blade cut a jagged fissure across his chest a mere fraction of a second from impaling his lung. The spray of blood erupted out of the side of Nierro's chest following the path of the blade, and the half-wolf grunted audibly from the pain. But since Nierro stepped away at the same time off Ertai's forward line of attack, Ertai's lefthand blade bit into the empty air Nierro's arm occupied the same fraction of a second before.

That arm pulled Nierro's righthand blade into his middle guard, his hand at about waist level, the blade forming a thin steel wall to repel any errant attacks if Ertai turned with him.

"It's over!" Nierro announced in a raspy monotone, his voice straining from the pain.

Even before he finished speaking the words, Nierro's lefthand blade curved around Ertai's backside in an attempt to deliver a vicious stab slightly up into Ertai's lung, right between the rib cage, like the sting of a scorpion's tail. Nierro took full advantage of the curvature of the blade, the edge facing out to his own left so that even if Ertai turned to deflect he would likely not catch the blade in time to completely avoid the damage. His index finger pressed against the flat of the blade to guide the strike and he twisted his hips to unleash all of his raw power. He wanted to see the edge of his blade burst out of Ertai's chest in an explosion of ichor.

For it had been Ertai drawn into Nierro's clever trap, even as the half-wolf danced on the razor edge of death.

((Note to Judges: If this comes after the time limit has expired, consider it non-existent for the purposes of grading. If it disqualifies me, so be it.))

As the cold came, the world faded to white around the two warriors. The crowd evaporated into the mist, and the din of their roars became nothing more than a dull, distant echo. It reminded of Nierro's home in the frigid Northlands, frosted with snow, enshrouded with sulky grey clouds that formed a thin veil over the pale moon's wicked grin. It was a land of Winter eternal, the death of all things. In those next few moments, Ertai brought Nierro back to this land for his final rest.

Nierro glimpsed the face of Old Man Winter himself in Ertai's darkening expression. The snow gathered and glistened around Ertai's body like a cloak, stinging Nierro's eyes. The half-wolf grit his teeth and bared his fangs as soon as his own declaration of victory left his lips. He knew even before he had fully formed the thought in his mind, right as Ertai's blade flipped around in his grip so the ridge lined up with his arm. His attack would find not find the purchase he desired so lustfully, and there would be no satisfying spray of blackened blood from Ertai's chest and mouth.

And the warlord moved fast, faster than ever before, faster than Nierro anticipated. The half-wolf had only the time to make the most minute adjustment he had prepared in advance, a very subtle twitch of his finger to move from the flat of his thrusting blade to instead curve around the crossguard, in the same instant that steel crashed against steel with an ear-splitting ring.

Nierro's eyes went wide in fleeting astonishment at the sheer velocity of the deflecting strike, imbued with a surge of power and speed befitting a god among mortal men. Nierro felt the violent vibration course through his arm to penetrate deep into his core like a lightning bolt of pain. He did not fight against the indomitable strength but instead allowed his arm to blow all the way back, nearly hard enough to dislocate his shoulder. The cut on his wrist split open wider, gushing blood. The fact that he managed to wrap his finger around the crossguard was a tiny consolation then, allowing him to pull his arm back into his guard much quicker than he otherwise would have been able--for that matter, it prevented him from losing his grip on the blade completely, a very real possibility given Ertai's monstrous ability.

”You have qualities---”

The words trickled on the fringe of Nierro's mind as he desperately attempted to pull his left arm back into his guard, straining vigorously against the pain as blood spurted out of his chest and streamed down his neck. His left arm shivered violently and his knuckles turned bone white from his rigid grasp. He watched as Ertai effortlessly brought his full arsenal to bare, where he only had really one arm left that he could truly depend on. It was all enough to make him grimace, his face contorting in rage.

There was a flash of silver, one blade falling faster than even Nierro's trained eyes could follow. He managed to turn his cheek as little more than an afterthought as a thin red line sliced down the left side of his face over the ridge of his brow. The bandages unraveled at once, falling away to reveal the mottled skin of partially healed burns. Given the time between the matches, most men suffering Nierro's same injuries would look far worse, but it still did not make for such a pretty sight. In his vanity, it was a sight Nierro wanted to spare the crowd. He did not even give it a single thought now.



The second Gladius came, swift and sure, shaving off a small piece of Nierro's shoulder with it. Out of pure reflex, Nierro's body twisted clockwise and he took a half-step back, left foot, then right. In a deadly swordfight where an inch became a mile, this might seem the equivalent of a full retreat. The crowd might even wonder if the bravery he exuded before had leaked away with his blood.

Ertai would know by the fire in Nierro's eyes, fueled by his feral fury, that he had no notion of surrender.



Ertai seized his elegant and deadly Dominion Blades in his hands, and even in his rage Nierro could appreciate their beauty in form and function. If he had to die, he would die to a man who had the strength and skill to wield such a wicked blade. In response Nierro's shifted into a hasty stance, quickly raising his righthand blade high while his left titled over to rest horizontally in front of his torso.

”I offer you never ending power Nierro… All you must do is survive it-”

No.

No to dominion...

No to submission...

No to death...

No to his final rest...

"NO!" Nierro roared, his body twisting counter-clockwise and his arms lashing out right as Ertai lunged forward.



The blades snapped together in a parallel strike in the midst of Nierro's swing. Through sheer momentum his attack would have undeniable force, as even the Dominion Blade that pierced clean through his right shoulder would be unable to halt the strike. Nierro had passed the point of no return, both with his strike and in the battle itself. He put every last bit of his waning energy and insatiable lust for bloodshed in the technique, the blades arcing to carve deep into Ertai's chest, the edges closest to the tips aimed to slash through the skin to cleave Ertai's black heart and burst out the back if the half-wolf had his way.

But given the distance Ertai had negotiated between the two fighters, the blood clouding Nierro's vision, and the deception Ertai had planted in the flickering shadows hiding his true from, it would be too late for Nierro to realize he might cleave Ertai's arm and side at best given the warlord's fencing stance. Suffice it to say, it would not go exactly the half-wolf's way with the momentum of the attack leaving him far too exposed for a brutal counter-attack from Ertai's righthand blade.

But even if he had to suffer his own demise, Nierro refused to suffer subjugation.