Duel:Hadrian and Vajramirne v Rawnie and Sasha
Duelists: Vajramirne and Hadrian, Rawnie and Sasha
Location: Gualon Arena
Stakes: Autohit, advancement in the Gualon Revival Tournament
Eboric stands before a raised section of seating, looking out over the arena floor. Next to him stand Darraq, dressed in a dark robe. The Warlord speaks, his voice echoing through the building with all the authority of a born commander. "The Aethlinga Gedriht welcomes you, warriors and spectators alike, to this test of mettle. I am sure, like me, that you are all eager for the first blood to be shed. First, however, we will ensure that higher beings than ourselves are watching, that they may take note of our doings." The werebear falls silent, allowing Darraq to speak, at first directing his words to all those gathered in the arena. "Shadowed Lords, accept our gifts of bloodshed this day. We, the Aethlinga Gedriht and salivating masses, ask that you guide our laudation and direct our combatants, our titanic leader, and each terrible blow. Grant that each of us may feel your aspects and be invigorated in our glorious cause, and remember our oaths and loyalties to our masters. Bless our champions and warriors, and bless our eyes so we may not miss a drop of blood fall upon the soil here today." The priest turns, then, his gaze singling out each member of Eboric's warband that is present, and he continues. "As we gather here today as sworn Thegns of the Aethlinga Gedriht, we pray to the Shadowed Lords that we are ever mindful of our opportunities here and our responsibilities to our Aethling Titan Eboric, to render our services to our fellow Thegns and the Aethlinga Gedriht. Always minding the values of blood shed in honor of our oaths, exerting our efforts to that end, and on the future of our great war band will build for us a future unconquerable! Let us continue this world by satisfying the bloodlust of the Woeful one and satiating the rage-driven torrents of the Scornful one." Turning back to include the rest of the people, he speaks yet more, his voice taking on a caustic note. "We remain vigilant to the wiles of our Shadowed Lords and the basic motives that drive each of us. A true brotherhood of people can free us from the starvation of the spirit, from the oppression of the Tyrants, and from the sickness one suffers in lack of purpose. The freedom to choose for yourself our own deaths! We reaffirm our living spirits in a celebration of blood and pain and in it, find the festering truth we have too long hidden away. Fight Champions and warriors! Fight for your oaths and honor! And revel, you people! Celebrate the awesome spectacle you are soon to witness!" Here, the priest's voice sobers, and he lifts his arms above his head. "Shadowed Lords, may it please you, the sacrifice we are about to make and the suffering we are soon to endure. We celebrate your aspects with blood and laughter. Salos." Darraq steps down, taking a seat. Eboric, who has remained silent throughout this invocation, clears his throat now and speaks again, his voice feral, excited. "Spectators, take your seats. The fighting will begin shortly!"
Vaidhe enters the arena and quickly makes his way to one of the lower benches to watch. There is much to be gleaned from gladiatorial combat, after all. He is quiet, unassuming and perhaps would go unnoticed if not for his naturally imposing figure. The dragon takes care to seat himself as far from the pillar and its strange orb as he can while still ensuring himself a good point of vantage to watch the fight.
Celiann , much like Vaidhe, distanced herself from that pillar with the most peculiar orb. Taking a seat upon the first bench that was available - not too far from Vaidhe, actually - she sat there with a little parasol. It actually made her blush; she felt like such a diva! But hey, sensitive skin, vampirism, sunlight, so on and so forth - it was a relief, if not a necessity! Set up with her parasol, she settled in ready to watch the display of sheer brawn.
Kuiai steps in and takes a seat up high and somewhat alone. He wanted to watch in peace and see what all would happen. He is clothed in his new armor and his horns seems polished and shiny for once. He must have wanted to lok good for this.
Madigan came in behind a crowd of spectators, preferring to remain hidden. It would be a curious experience for her, getting to watch this tournament. She wondered who would fight today and if she knew them at all. Would she see anyone she knew in the crowd? The thought doesn't stick around for very long. Her attention is now on the architecture.
Satoshi is present and seated relatively out of the way, as much because she dislikes the nagging sensative of the orb's area of effect as because she just wishes to observe in peace.
Thea makes her way into the arena, hoping she hasn't missed too much action as yet. In one hand, the hem of her skirt is clutched, toned legs weaving to and fro trying to find a proper seat where she will not find too much discomfort from that dreaded aura. In the other hand, a bag of popcorn of course. She slides a pert bottom to a seat finally and veridian eyes peruse the crowd.
Thea spies Vexar and motions him over, offering up the bag of popcorn to share.
Vexar lurks into the crowded arena, his figure impossible to establish against the backdrop of barbaric throngs encompassing him. He had selected the particularly unruly section of the arena not by accident, assuming of course that his veiled face, doused by the ruckus of a shoulder-to-shoulder, two deep crowd, would go completely and entirely unnoticed. He was, of course, completely and entirely wrong. The waning sunlight overhead throws the familiar silhouette of a beckoning pixie his direction. The Harbinger accepts the summons with a wry smirk, gently shaking his head in defeat as he weaves through the masses to approach her. "Evening, Thea."
Thea is so sorry she messed up his disguise, but wanted to share her popcorn. As she hands him the bag she smiles, "As if you could hide from the likes of me, love?", Noting he may have been situated here longer than herself, she jerks her chin towards the arena, "Anything interesting happen yet?"
Vexar takes the salty-snack, popping a few kernels into his mouth as more of a novelty factor than matter of enjoyment. He gestures towards a particularly dark, and apparently fresh, patch of blood on the arena sands before continuing. "A terribly disgusting and foul mouthed brute found himself cast from the stands and onto the arena grounds on account of what I can only speculate was his ego. The crash did well to split his shin in twine…I believe the grounds crew removed him just recently. Nothing else of note."
Thea gives a nod as she stares to the sands, mouth closed around her own bit of the popped corn.
Vajramirne stood upon her side of the large arena, listening to the sounds of the spectators. Much as the broadsheet had predicted... this event had really drawn in the crowd, and the energy was palpable. With her magic nullified in this place, the evening's event was going to be a straight-up brawl. Still, it was no matter... she just had to pick one of the two opponents before her and close in fast enough to take them out quickly! But which one to choose? The one known as Sabre, then? Of the two, he was closer... and honestly, seemed the weaker of the two. With her mind made up, all that remained was to move... and move she did. Launching forward, Vajra had more speed than any ordinary human or elf could physically match. Even in that ridiculous skirt, she was little more than a plaid-colored streak across the arena floor as she darted her way forward, zig-zagging her way across the battlefield. When only a few steps separated her from her prey, she lashed out with that whip in a blatant attempt to simply sweep Sabre off of his or her feet. Assuming that move didn't fail, the Shieldmaiden's instinctive tactic was to surge in close and get off as many rapid-fire fist and palm strikes as possible. Even if she didn't succeed in tripping up the masked man, it didn't much matter. Vajra was confident enough in her speed and agility that she'd just lunge in anyway and take a good stab at Sabre's knee with her thickly padded boot. Anything to get the man off-balanced and at a disadvantage, really, was the plan.
Hadrian … the Grand Champion of Gualon's Arena, stands proud and tall this day. His grizzled physique stands nearly naked, a spiked armlet his only form of armor, save for that gruesome looking spiked shield. Hadrian's kilt, testament to the Gladiators of old, doesn't even cover his knees, with thick-leather boots to protect his feet against the sand-laden floor of his home Arena. He offers a vicious sneer in the direction of his two opponents, and a sideways glance to Vajramirne out of respect for her joining him this night. Hadrian's visage harbors a horrid depiction war paint; blood, death, and decay in wild colors, which spread out down to his naked chest--if only to add to the ferocity of the Gladiator. With stringent attention to traditions of combat, Hadrian inhales deeply and then issues a cacophonous battle-cry, before bounding ahead in the wake of the proceeding Vajramirne, acting her shadow. However, once Vajramirne lashes out against Sabre, he breaks away from her, intent on placing himself between his teammate, and Rawnie; whom, given her teammate in the thick of things with Vajra, might be trying to abjourn her present position and help Sabre. Years of grueling combat and training play into effect, as Hadrian draws forth the menacing mace he had been given for his fight, and swings without remorse, intent on initially cracking Rawnie's skull beneath the raw power of the Gladiator, and deliver her into unconsciousness. Furthermore, the Champion lunges forward--spiked-shield jutting forward--intent to blunder through Rawnie, and hopefully leave her in a hapless pile of broken bone, and bloodied body. He had to keep himself between Rawnie and Vajra, and with his shield, he knew he could do well that job.
Sasha narrowed her unseeing eyes. She had managed to get into the competition without a hitch; without anyone recognizing her, and without anyone finding out that she was, in fact, a woman. She readied herself cracking the whip to get the feel of the weapon that felt ever so foreign in her hand. In her boots were the twin daggers to which she had been assigned. Suddenly she felt the vibrations in the ground change. Her opponent was darting towards her, and by the sound her feet made, she was a fast one too. Sasha, or Sabre as she had decided to call herself for this little mission, dodged to the right as best she could, but the shot of the whip sent her way caught on her leg. She was lucky that she had moved soon enough, the injury left was nothing more than annoying stinging sensation, nothing worse than she had faced at the hands of Xzarren just a week before. She hoped that by moving as quickly as she did, she might be able to aim her first blow correctly, and shot her own whip to Vajamirne, making sure to distance herself first, aware that whips would be less effective at close-range.
A man adorned in a green velvet doublet, and long black breeches, meanders his way through the throng of onlookers; if one were to look, plenty of others dressed the same as him can be seen, taking in large amounts of gold--obviously bets. This man hollers out to the people nearest him in the crowd, "Bets! Place your bets! Do you dare to support the underdogs… the two in combat against the Grand Champion, or do you prefer to support the old Champion and his teammate?" His voice a soft, his face flustered with the effort of shouting, "Or do you simply wish to donate to those that will be defeated today?! Bets! Place your bets…" He carries on, continuing his stroll through the crowds.
Rawnie scoops to pick up a hand full of the gritty sand and rub it between her palms, creating a lubrication (of sorts) to ensure smooth gripping of the leather bound hilt of her chosen mace. A sideward glance is taken to her partner, eyeing the assumed male suspiciously while assessing his ability to defend himself. Whether or not the gypsy determines him capable, Vajra has struck, and Hadrian follows in her wake. Through gritted teeth, Rawnie releases a growled curse, and twists her palms tighter around her weapon's shaft. While her opponent might have years of combat training and is now a battle hardened gladiator, the cinnamon skinned woman has subjected herself to a more graceful and agility styled training. When his musculature proposes an impending attack by twitching beneath his skin, Rawnie slides her left foot back a step, and the moment that spiked balled top arcs out at her, the gypsy composes a polished back flip that ends in a crouch, allowing her to not only escape the concussion and the intended slam of the shield as well. "Tsk tsk darling," she practically purrs. Her crouch allows her thighs to contain a considerable amount of potential energy, and rapidly, it's spent as she leaps to the right with the intention of placing herself in a more positive position for attacking. Her mace is pulled up over her shoulder like a batter waiting for the perfect pitch, but… she doesn't wait. Instead, she swings like a crazed wife finding her husband in bed with another. That iron spiked ball is dead set on connect with Hadrian's shoulder. Thereafter, her right leg (the metallic one Cerinii had constructed for her years ago) kicks out at the gladiator's left knee to break the joint completely.
Celiann didn't wish to yell her support for any particular contestant for fear of actually distracting them! So, she sat there with her little parasol - nicely shaded - and watched the scene unfold. Certainly, physical combat was always such an interesting thing. More so when a combatant died - that was far more interesting to this necromancer! So, Celiann would watch the events unfold while her puppeteer buggers off to get some sleep.
Vexar snaps at the airborne popcorn, a single fang flashing out as he adeptly snares the kernel within his mouth. A passing glance is offered the hollering bookmaker before he looks to the arena, attempting to identify the combatants based on the gambler's description.
Vajramirne drove herself forward into the lashing whip, shouldering herself sideways to avoid contact with the braided leather surface until it had more than half-passed by. In an instant, all forward momentum ceased, and the draconian woman's hand burst forward to latch onto her opponent's weapon sharply. For an elven woman, such a tactic would have burned her skin raw… but thank the gods, those silver scales protruding from her slightly thicker flesh were more than capable of bringing the whip to a grinding halt. And then, with one hand, she would use the masked man's weapon like a fishing pole… yanking it fiercely back in her direction. Only a slight glint of reflective light would betray the swift motion in which Vajra slipped her off-handed weapon, a crude dagger whose blade was made of twisted black iron and a serrated back edge of cobbled-together steel plates, from out of her boot and into her hand. Now it was a matter of closing the distance. If the hoisting wasn't enough to pull Sabre into her blade… then it was a matter of wrapping the man's whip around her bone-plated chestpiece one loop at a time until she was in range to plunge that wicked weapon right into his gut. Unless perhaps he had a trick up his sleeve, she supposed.
Hadrian shrugs off the sting of his bold attack gone amiss. It is never smart to fully throw yourself into the hope of defeating another, regardless of ability, so soon into a fight. The wily gifts of a Human, on top of the fact he is a Gladiator, plays into account as he simply melds into the new front of attack. It is no great feat that he carelessly swats away the oncoming mace with his own; the clash of steel against steel spawning forth a bone-jarring tingle into his arm. Even still, he preservers against the sting, if only to feel the pain of Rawnies kick as it batters into his thigh--her original target thrown off so slightly by the concussion of their weapons. Hadrian grins with satisfaction, his ears burning with the hooting and hollering of the ever-vigilant onlookers. He takes a moment to revel in the din of the crowd and the clash of battle, attempting to use it all to drown out the pain of the horrible kick to his leg. Like a never ending storm, he descends upon Rawnie once more, swinging his mace first for her shoulder, than for her leg, and finally, up for her chin. His efforts are to simply push back the speedy woman, and allow for his true attack to reign down upon Sabre! Just as he finishes swinging wildly for Rawnie, he springs away from her, and upon completion of a tight summersault, he throws his shield for the flank of Sabre. His leg burns something fierce, and he knew he would soon have the incessant woman with the mace descending upon him once more. It is all he can do to help Vajra subdue Sabre, before he whips about as fast as he can, with his hobbled leg, to face the onslaught of his foe.
Sasha really hadn't planned for the whip to be tugged, so when it went taut, she lost her footing for a fraction of a second, stumbling forward and stubbing her toe. She let out an irritated grunt, planting her feet in the ground, not ready to let her opponent win. Even disguised as a man, she was visibly smaller than most; so it would be surprising to see how well she actually had managed to hold her ground, only slipping forward a little bit. Her blind eyes did not recognize the blade, but in her mind, she envisioned fists pounding at her face if she allowed herself to be reeled in like a fish on a wire. Thinking fast, she did the first thing that came to mind; she let go of the whip. If her little scheme was successful, her opponent would stagger back due to the sudden lack of force on the other end of the whip. She quickly reached into her boots, retrieving the twin daggers that Hadrian had given her; and was about to send her attacks towards Vajamirne, but felt and heard the rumbling of the Champion Hadrian approaching at full speed. She again dodged out of the way, oblivious that his shield had been raised to her; but it still opened up a chance for Vajamirne to attack as she began to slash at Hadrian with all her might; her arms toned and strong from years of wielding a spear before she had lost her sight, and before she had learned to use magic. Her current goal was to get Hadrian back to her ally, Rawnie, and she prayed deep down that her partner would help her from the back, scared to death of what would come next.
Rawnie grimaces when their iron maces clash together, causing the bones and tendons in her arms to sing in a numbing pain that nearly sees her dropping her weapon. Thankfully, however, she doesn't fall into that folly and squeezes her hilt tighter. She doesn't acknowledge the fact that her kick connects with the wrong bone, because instead, she's forced to turn her attention to the onslaught of attacks. The second parry of maces sees a flicker of sparks, and due to her lack of knowledge of the weapon, and the awkward angle in which the swing itself has been delivered, Hadrian's mace is muscled into her shoulder enough to see her staggering back- thankfully, out of the way of this other swings with the help of accurate twists and bends of her torso. "Sonuva bitch." The gypsy grits out, shaking out her bleeding and sore arm. Thankfully, her attackers attention has turned to Sasha, and rather than leap after Hadrian, Rawnie immediately goes for Vajra. Given the range of a whip, the gypsy jumps at the dragon. Muscled and metal legs seek to curl around the woman's waist, squeezing tighter and tighter like a snake until she's forced to fall to the ground. If however, that attack doesn't flourish, Rawnie will simply bat away at her with that mace.
Vajramirne didn't know how exactly she found herself face-first in the dirt... ears ringing and eyes thick and clogged with gravellish dust. By the time she managed to untangle herself from the mess she'd made of Sabre's whip... she found that the masked man had already turned her attention onto Hadrian. Well... saw was a very liberal term, considering she could barely make out silhouettes in her current condition! And so, though it probably came as no surprise to any of those watching, Vajra found herself with an opponent who had firmly latched onto her waist! This turned out to be doubly bad, when one considered the nature of that mechanical leg. Furious, the draconian woman did the only thing she could think to do in the situation: she swung her silver-scale plated fist as many times as she could manage at Rawnie's face. Perhaps she'd get lucky and land a few blows before her legs gave out from underneath her. Maybe she'd even manage to break free… though if she didn't quickly, it wasn't likely she'd be much use to Hadrian, in the end.
Hadrian is borne of Blood and Sand, wrought through heat-tempered steel, and made to never stay behind the shield of his stubborn defiance of any opponent to meet him in the throng of mortal combat. The dedication of his to the show of blood and sport, the grueling burn of his muscles, his body covered in a sheen of perspiration, even the pain of his leg--they all send him further yet into the embrace of reckless abandon in pursuit of championing his rightful title of Tournament winner once more. His mouth works a vicious snarl, brows furrowed down in deep concentration. He begrudgingly takes a few scattered slashes from the dagger, each to spew forth a tiny spray of blood, to further laden the sand in its most beautiful color--crimson. Hadrian pushes past the pain, and barely hindered by the pain in his thigh, he springs forward in a wild haymaker! Six feet of raw muscle, sinew and bone screams violent impact impending down upon Sabre, unless she make fast to move at such close quarters with the brazen Gladiator. Hadrian blunders on after the mad punch, his thigh sending rippling pain through his body with each hateful pound upon the sand. Upon close proximity to the entangled duo, Hadrian jumps as high as he can--to be honest, it isn't that high, due to the fact his thigh cringes in pain--and descends upon Rawnie, feet first, intent on using her as his landing mat. Rawnie, entrapping Vajra like so with only her legs, presents a suitable condition for this barbarous attack to not go awry and instead crush his teammate. His teeth grit against the expectation of colliding wholly into the wily woman, Rawnie.
Sasha staggered back, taking a blow to her arms, which she had quickly crossed over her chest, feeling the whoosh of air as he pulled his fist back. Though she was blind, she seemed to make up for it with wit, speed, and extremely heightened senses. She coughed, the blow had taken her air away, and she fell, allowing him to run over her to Rawnie now that she had survived the blow, and escaped most of them by ducking and jumps, which, as a wood elf, were simple tasks for her. She could feel her arms aching, the punch had probably bruised them to the bone, and she wondered if her left arm was fractured. She gritted her teeth, not letting out a single noise, for fear of letting her true identity be known. She listened carefully. The sound of one of Hadrian's legs was lighter on the ground than the other, but just so slightly. He was injured. She cursed the fact that she didn't have magic to let her see, and then allowed her spirit to calm, trying her hardest to listen to the voices of any animals nearby. It wasn't magic, it was a skill that most people had, but just hadn't developed. She unfortunately, heard no voices, but the murmur of a worm. Her eyes narrowed and she listened once more, pinpointing Hadrian's location, and threw one of the daggers with all her might, aiming for his injured leg, hopefully in the back of the knee, since he was facing away. Her body quaked, a blind girl's aim could be questionable, but she had a good feeling, she could sense his massive being. Afterwards, she rolled in an attempt to reclaim her whip.
Rawnie 's only intention was to take Vajra to the ground, and out of the punches thrown, Rawnie takes three: to the nose; to the right eye; and to the mouth. Surely, she'll look a mess later. The movement in her peripherals alerts her to the approach and poor jump of Hadrian, and quickly, her legs release Vajra and the wily woman rolls from her captive which unfortunately places the dragon in place to be used as a spring board by the gladiator in Rawnie's stead. Smoothly, the druid gathers to her feet, and immediately her right, dominate and metal constructed leg swings out in a high kick to connect with Hadrian's ribs. Given the blows to her head by Vajra, regardless of whether or not Rawnie's assault lands, she staggers back in a frenzied means of regaining her balance.
Vajramirne 's booted feet slammed up into Hadrian's... her sole intention being to propel him away from her person. If in doing so she inadvertantly spared him from taking another kick to the gut... or chest... or, gods have mercy where else that foot might have landed, who was she to argue? No, what concerned her the most was the loud shattering sound made upon Rawnie's departure and the subsequent impact with Hadrien. The thick silver scale which had until then been protecting her stomach shattered. The metal shards, following all the rules of physics and laws of nature, embedded themselves into her flesh deeply as she forced her way up to her feet. The Shieldmaiden staggered and coughed sharply, hand pressed firmly to her abdomen as she struggled her way up to her feet. Blood flowed freely from her wounds, though it wasn't enough to cause any great concern. Draconic heitage meant that she'd be good as new in less time that it would have taken her to find a healer, anyway. Better to retreat for now. If there was to be a next round for her, she'd do well not to get herself killed during this one.
Hadrian is caught, surprisingly, by the much stronger force of Vajra, a Draconian, pushing him away via means of feet touching. His head is thrown forward, a jolt of pain to surge through his back, and a dagger to meet with angry burning passion into the back of his knee. It is all very confusing to him, the dizzying spin of the arena about him, as he is sent tumbling away from both Rawnie and Vajra--a breath away from being crippled by another damned kick from the metal-legged woman. He collides, the entirety of his weight behind it, into the sand-laden grounds of the arena. He coughs, rising unsteadily to his feet, mace lost somewhere between him getting launched, and his fall. He stubbornly pulls free the dagger, sent by Sabre, from the back of his knee, and tosses it to the ground. His eyes and face, immediately purged of any gruesome sneer, lift to inspect Eboric and Darraq, his shoulders hunched, awaiting the final decision of the victors this night.
Eboric has been watching the fight with undivided attention, and when the battle at last lulls, he rises, looking down at the arena floor. He turns aside, glancing at Darraq as if to invite the priest to give his input, although from the look on the Warlord's face, his mind is all but made up.
Darraq turns to Eboric, face lifting his face from his hands, and nods to Eboric, confirming the Titan's thoughts.
Eboric grins back at the bloodied fighters. He extends his hand, thumb held out to the side. Looking at his thegns, he nods, and turns his hand, the gesture clearly meant to say that Hadrian and Vajramirne have performed the best in this match.
Rawnie snarls in disgust at the given result, spits a bloodied wad of mucus onto the sand in sign of disrespect, the gypsy is quite the sore loser.
Hadrian nods his head to his Warlord Eboric, before turning to face Sabre. A few stumbling steps are taken towards her/him, blood running in slow rivulets all over his body, ruining the war paints vicious appearance, yet adding its own gruesome aspect still yet. His left hand reaches out, grasping firmly upon Sabre's neck. "The sand of the Arena has chosen your fate… Your worthiness is not in question, but I am your superior." With that, the entirety of Hadrian's right body recoils, hand cocked back in a fist. "May you find a better calling." With bitter reconciliation, his fist collides into Sabre's mask, to break her nose, and sending her tumbling to the ground. Sowly, Hadrian allows the heat of battle to ebb from him, allowing his pains and wounds to wholly envelope him, before he offers Eboric a salute, "A victory for you, my Lord."
Eboric strips two of the golden rings from his arms, tossing them down into the arena; one for Hadrian, and one for Vajra. "You have done well, both of you," he says, as he descends onto the reddened sand of the arena floor, where he claps his thegns on their respective shoulders -none too hard, mindful of their wounds. "The world has seen but another taste of the might of the Gedriht. Go now, and heal, for our work is not yet done."
Hadrian catches the gold ring intended for him, clasping this one, next to the other already in place, upon his upper arm. "Indeed, Eboric." He bows woodenly, then steps away from the arena, bruised, battered, and sore. He intends to get himself a good night's sleep.
Sasha let out a cry of pain as her nose cracked, and the mask fell from her face, revealing not a man, as she had led everyone to believe, but a pretty young woman with blind eyes. She managed a grin and struggled back up to her feet, wiping blood from her freckled and now twisted nose. "You fight like a crazed beast. It was truly worthy of honor. If you'd like, once we're out of here, I can heal that knee for you." She didn't want there to be hard feelings between them, he had won her respect, even with the bashed nose, which she prodded gingerly, wincing in pain.