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Wardite was sure he'd been dragged to this insanity because the Wardens felt the need to put him and Piy through the wringer. All the same, he wasn't about to be beat out by some scrub, not with the amount of training the Wardens would make him go through.

He didn't talk much, just stood in his place in the ring and watched his opponent, snorting a bit as he rolled his shoulders to loosen up.

"Hope you don't hold it against me when I break your glasses and drop you to the floor..."

As his General was hosting once again, Keyite felt it was only natural that he join the 'festivities' once more. Sparring really wasn't his strongest suit, the pursuit of intelligence was much more to his liking, but he had signed on readily and without hesitation. At the release of the tournament brackets, he'd not recognized the name of his first opponent, nor had he found much data on Wardite, beyond that he held a more physical nature than Keyite.

He was not looking forward to this encounter. At all.

Keyite stood still and quiet, waiting for the signal to be given that they should begin; he would not attack first. It was not his nature to do so. Nor was it in his nature to answer the braggadocio Wardite spewed with that of his own, instead the curly haired lieutenant merely lifted one arched brow before answering quietly. "Of course not, it is all a...friendly tournament, is it not."

Something in the green of his eyes said that despite the warm words, the chilled French accent was truer to what Keyite actually felt. This was a man that held grudges. And moved on them with alacrity.

Oh. Good heavens. An Irishman. Keyite sighed with the weight of a thousand hours spent grading inane school papers as Wardite's accent assaulted his ears. Thank ******** I'm not English.

Wardite attacked, Keyite defended and deflected, taking what would have been a terrible blow and turning it so he took it across the body, which hurt more but did not freeze up his diaphragm the way the solar plexus shot would have, and it skidded. The knee connected with his hip, jarring the whole of his stance and set him to swearing roundly with the pain, but also set him up for stomping soundly on Wardite's own instep and offering a kidney strike in return.

What he lacked in aggressive physicality, Keyite made up for in precision strikes and tactics. A show indeed. It was a brawl, already.

Well, there went his specs. Luckily he wouldn't be at too great a disadvantage without them, at this point - even if Wardite were reduced to blurry features. He required them at all times, legally, but of course he could see without them, it just made life harder. "Dirty pool."

Key curled into his fist securely, the officer went right for Wardite's throat, hoping to crush his trachea a bit, or at least give him a reason to put some space between them for a moment. Being wrapped up in each other was simply not the best for applying tactics to a fight, after all.

For a knock-down, drag-out brawl, yes.

But nothing more than that, which...apparently was the entire idea behind Wardite's mode of operation. It made sense, he was an Irishman, after all. Keyite dropped to the ground to knock his opponent's feet out from under him, rolling back onto his feet from that in a practiced movement and taking the chance to put a few steps of space between.

He was certain it wouldn't last long, but it was enough.

As he thought, the sweep did very little, but it did give Keyite a brief respite before Wardite was up and kicking. Each blow met block with forearm, jarring up bone to shoulder. Ridiculous. This was obnoxious. Endlessly so.

But it did give him a chance, while Wardite was mid-kick, to catch his leg and slam the point of his elbow down on his knee-cap. It was a nasty trick, really, and one that Keyite favored greatly when he had to deal with someone that was a bit...kicky. Or just swift on their feet. Crippling, maiming, it was all permissible. The only rule that his General had set forth was to try to not take a life. Which meant that he would, of course, do his very best.

But broken bones and torn ligaments? Those could be healed with star-seed ingestion, with time. He was not worried for the other combatant, nor himself. Very few things could not be recovered from. Those that fell into that sector...well, there were ways around it. Youma-augmentation. Prosthetic limbs, like Zircon. It would be fine.

Keyite was determined to make a good showing this year.

Keyite had been correct in his earlier estimation that the battle with Wardite would end up being a drag-out brawl as opposed to something more refined. It was a pity, but then again, it didn't appear that either of their weapons were suited for an actual duel...so they were stuck simply relying on fisticuffs and brutality tactics.

Still, it would have been unfair to say that he was finding the Irishman boring, quite the opposite, really. For all that he did not appreciate having to swap blows repeatedly, at least Wardite wasn't a ridiculously obnoxious opponent and Keyite appreciated that.

Keyite found himself dropped to the ground, but instead of twisting up, he simply kicked up, going for the point he'd already hit once - Wardite's legs - before rolling and getting back up onto his feet to toss a few jabs towards the other lieutenant's face.

Wardite rallied, both of them bloodied and battered. Keyite's body felt absolutely leadened as he took blow after blow. The Irisher had wanted to give the 'yanks' a show, and a show they'd done, hadn't they?

Blood from a cut over his eye blinded him and made his next swing go wide, a complete miss.