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Fight:Ernest v Lanara v Trent

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Summary: Come for the booty… Stay for the blood.

Presented by: The Redskull Trophy Ring

Combatants: Ernest vs. Lanara vs. Trent

Stakes: Winner receives fame and bragging rights.

Terms: No holds barred!

Master of Ceremonies: Orikahn

Ring Marshal: Orikahn

Judge: Aira


Winner: Lanara




Aira :: Seeing as Orikahn was one of the masterminds behind the Redskull Trophy Ring, Aira was almost always in the know about what was going on and the upcoming fights. She had heard about the next match, a three person stand off, featuring her frenemy, Lanara. Two men one woman. And the way she heard it, a prominent dwarf in the Redskull community would be acting as judge. Well that would not do at all. Aira sought him out soon after gleaning that information, and had found him several drinks deep in the Dragon’s Head Inn. She had sidled up next to him, making small talk, buying him a drink, and matching him shot for shot (or so he thought—she had only been refilling his glass) and the pair got to conversing more in depth. She put on the fake charm (much to her own disgust) gushing over how much she enjoyed his company and how they should really grab drinks again sometime soon. She had proposed the night of the fight, pretending as if she knew nothing about the scheduled event, and after a moment of contemplation the man agreed to meet her—far away in Cenril. He mentioned having to let Orikahn know he would have to bow out of his duties, but Aira assured him that she would pass along the message; after all the pair were in the guild together so she saw him fairly regularly (the man need not know of the true nature of her relationship with the feline). This little vixen had no intention of telling Kahn, however, nor did she plan on meeting the dwarf for drinks—she would be replacing him as judge. It was only fair to have another female presence, she needed to help counteract all that testosterone somehow. Aira waltzes into the arena with a knowing smirk on her face, her other weaponry left back home in Frostmaw. She wears her normal attire, a pair of leggings, a long sleeved top cinched at her midsection with an underbust corset, and a pair of knee-high boots. Her platinum blonde hair is parted down the middle this evening, hiding the sheared side, and it hangs in loose waves down her back. The vulpine ears atop her head twitch at the cacophony of voices, cheers and jeers alike, and her matching russet tail gives an excited swish. This was going to be fun.


Ernest entered the arena with a grin on his desiccated lips, his black duster flowing behind him as his boots clink-clink-clinked along the ground. He pursed those lips and tried to whistle--naught but dry air escaped his body. That'd never carry, and that bothered him. He wanted the sound of his appearance to be as dramatic as the appearance itself. So instead, he brought his voice down to a deep bass, and began to hum. An old, wordless melody, an orcish warsong he'd picked up from his time spent in the desert. And it was to that soundtrack--punctuated by the spurs on his boots--that he emerged into the light of the arena, bony fingers twitching lightly at his sides, face mostly hidden beneath the shadows of his wide-brimmed hat. It had been too long since he'd been in an arena like this--and he had a couple of new tricks up his sleeves to try out. He was almost giddy with anticipation.


Lanara slips beneath the ropes and into the ring, her chocolate hues sizing up each of her targets with a glimmer of humor in her expression. Her long dark locks had been expertly formed into a French-style braid and hung down the center of her back, and her fair face is void of any make-up. She was here to fight, not for a beauty contest, though if she were here for some sort of pageantry she surely would win, as her costume was turning the head of nearly every male in the arena. The elf is literally the cat’s meow in a form-fitting leather jumpsuit, which fits her like a glove and accentuates her curvaceous figure. Black leather gloves cover her appendages, black boots cover her feet, and a black eye-mask covers the upper half of her face, leaving slits for the smoldering glare that is offered to the jeering of the crowd. A curt nod is given to those that she recognizes, before she snaps her utility belt into place, which houses a dagger and two small, mysterious, cloth bags. An enchanted tail has been sewn into the rear of the jumpsuit and it swishes wildly from side to side, the forked tip lined with sharp razor-blades, and should any get too close they’d suffer a nasty slash. Atop Lana’s head rests a headband and two erect cat ears, which are also lined in shards of blades, as a method of defense. Lana has several reasons for channeling her inner cat-woman and fighting in the ring again… The first being that she heard rumors that Aira was going to be the judge. And seeing that she’s involved romantically with Orikahn, well, dressing as a cat could work to her advantage. The second reason was that she horribly lost to her sister, Talyara, a few months back, and she was here to set the record straight, that she indeed was a formidable foe. The third reason was that she was now seeing a therapist and she said that Lana had to work out her aggression, and this was a rather healthy environment for such a thing. The fourth and final reason was for advertising purposes, as it was kitten season, and adoptions were half-price at her sanctuary in Sage Forest. Lana ignores the whistles and ogling of the men, and she tunes out the voice of the emcee, as her mind was set on one thing… Winning.


Khitti came alone to a fight for once. There was no Meri, no Brand. She'd been tempted to bring her son Dominic with her, but with the way things went during the fight between Shishi and Eirik so long ago, she decided against bringing a baby. Well, was she entirely alone though? No, not really. Tenbatsu Kaji was strapped to her back for the moment, its gold aura shining for all to see, albeit softly. Khitti made herself comfortable in a decent spot, the sword and its sheath removed from her back and left to float as it may beside her to her left. The gold glow shifted to a dark orange, and Khitti whispered to it, uncaring of anyone that might see her speak to an inanimate object--which it wasn't!. "Yes, I know I should be dealing with the stuff in Venturil... but I need a break sometimes too." She paused as the sword pulsed its orange light again. "Yes, I know I've had many "breaks" lately, but what the frak am I supposed to do on my own right now? You want me to waltz right into that bubble in Diernebyrg and start talking to Gabriel? Is that what you want?" The sword glowed a fiery red then, Seika, the holy sprite within the blade, clearly not liking Khitti's tone right now. Khitti shook her head and sighed, "Let's just enjoy the fight please... I will get back to things when it's over."


Trent didn’t know what he was getting himself into. All around his patrol route, he continued to see fliers advertising some sort of combating sport in which citizens could stand to win large sums of money. How the combat worked, or what sort of involvement he would take was the part that spoke of uncertainty. Behind the scenes he had been given a brief rundown of what was expected, and yet not much else. It was now showtime. Trent entered the ring with a stoic caution, steeled gaze sifting over the large arena and those that had come to attend. He wore a lightweight black chestplate to protect his core, while his arms, from the forearm down, were protected by metal gauntlets of differing shades. The right, a familiar composition and color as the plate he wore. The left, a strange silver gauntlet with a series of runes running along the entire length of the forearm, and sharp taloned fingers that protected a larger sigil in the palm. His legs were dressed in simple, loose fitting cotton pants, and his feet were decorated with a pair of black combat boots enchanted for speed. He carried no sort or discernable weapon, which may lead spectators to assume that he had come ready to engage in hand to hand combat, or some sort of sorcery. Ernest and Lanara had been given a good once over, a look of confusion settled upon the human’s face as he realized whom his opponents were. They seemed experienced and ready to fight- Perhaps Trent was in over his head.


Orikahn has traded out his loincloth for a tartan kilt in oxblood and cream, the official colors of the Redskull Trophy Ring, made quite obvious by the huge banners, the sea of red-and-white clad fans in the stands, and even the official uniforms of the ushers and cheerleaders. The mingled smell of beer, popcorn, sausages, and sweat is quite too much for the feline; while he waits for the fight to begin, Kahn lingers near the wealthy backers and their season seats, eager to dull his olfactory senses with secondhand pipesmoke billowing up from the pompous old dwarves. They'd managed to talk the old sabertooth out of carrying his weapons tonight, it looks like. In naught but kilt and skulls, then, he stands and stretches, prompted by the sudden and tumultuous roar of the crowd. Their thunderous cheers erupt to greet the fighters. Orikahn greets them more reservedly in the ring. "Alright, you three. These stones are getting thirsty," he stomps for effect, "so put a little blood on it. Just don't do anything that'll make me jump back in here," his three eyes narrow in warning, "got it? Good. Now give 'em a good fight." The sabercat claps above his head and quickly backpedals back to the sideline, hasty to give the fighters room to exercise their art. In said, haste, Kahn nearly trips over himself when he double takes at the judge. Aira!?


Ernest sized up his opponents. It was time to begin, and he had just the quick-draw to do it with. In a movement so fast you'd swear there was supposed to be something in between, both hands had crossbows in them, his longcoat swirling behind him in a half-delayed reaction to get out of the way. In that same moment, he'd already fired both, the glowing runes on his weapons dulling already as they stiffened in the same instant as he pulled the trigger, giving both small weapons a draw weight far higher than what they might have seemed. Both weapons fired their darts dead-on to both his opponents, and even as he'd made the shots he was already spinning them back and crossing his arms, cocking them against each other, the cartridges reloading. Arms crossed, barely half a second had passed, and now the weapons were firing again, aimed just a little differently, hoping that he could land two shots in his foes before they'd even gone for their weapons. Neither shot was particularly enchanted—simple crossbow ammunition, something he wouldn't miss if it was deflected. A simple opener with which to probe their defenses before getting on with it. He began to run—circling around the outside of the area, leaving peculiar icy footprints in his wake.


Orikahn keeps half an eye on the fight as he climbs onto the judge's platform. "How did you, nfff," he grunts as he heaves himself up to sit on the stony ledge, back to the vixen as he calls at her over his shoulder, "land yourself in the judge's seat? Not that I'm complaining, I just-" Ernest's swift opening cuts him off, and he squints to make sure he hasn't missed something. "Damn, that scarecrow is fast."


Lanara narrows her eyes on Ernest, wondering if he was some sort of living-dead cowboy, and just how far he’d come to fight her and their opponent on this day. The hat was a horrid fashion statement, in her opinion, but then again, she was dressed as a feline! Her gaze would then shift to Trent, an attractive male wearing a look of confusion and some strange runic symbols on his armor. He looked capable in her eyes, and without seeing a weapon or that look of bravado on his expression, she assumes he has magic in his veins, much like the witch. For now, Lana remains with her feet planted in a defensive stance, her gaze returning to the form of the corpse-cowboy, as though her intuition gave her a nudge that he’d be the first to attack. Orikahn is giving a nod, as the trio agrees to a no-holds-barred fight that would bring a fair amount of bloodshed, as well as provide entertainment to the crowd. The minute Kahn exits the ring it’s on, and the witch rests her hands on her hips, idly tapping each of the cloth bags on either side of her utility belt. Lana allows Ernest to attack first, her suspicions having been correct, and as the arrows are loosened into the air and come hurtling towards both her and Trent, she smirks. He may have a rather nifty weapon, but she could wield the element of air, and so, she focuses her attention on the one meant for her and she mutters an incantation in Sylvan, and a faint breeze nudges the shaft a few feet to the right, heading straight for the left shoulder of the spellblade. Now that she had deflected the arrow and attacked Trent, she turns to counter-attack on Ernest, however she had misjudged the male, and the second arrow strikes true. Her right forearm is pinged by the arrowhead and Lana winces, while snapping off the arrow and dropping it to the floor of the ring. It was on. Furious that she had thought Ernest would only issue a single attack, she snatches up one of the black bags hanging from her belt and removes a miniature voodoo doll. The witch was no fool, and she had done her homework on who she would be fighting this evening. The doll was in near perfect likeness to Ernest, save for the cowboy hat, of course, and she was fully prepared to resort to issuing a nice dose of karma. “Try and run while I do this…” Reaching up, she pulls one of the razor blades from her cat-ear headband and she viciously stabs the doll in the upper thighs of both legs, three times, and she ends her assault by turning the doll over and stabbing it once in its right butt cheek. The man may have been making icy footprints around the area, but he had just stepped into the ring with fire, and the witch was famous for her craft.


Scandal sat in the his private box, no not the one he had spent much time in previously, rather he had paid for a special box to be made above the arena, with the promise to the dwarves whenever they wished to use it for someone else when he was not there and he would still pay his fare, and also have his own staff clean it. It made sure it was a super win for the dwarves hence why it was allowed, he sat in the dark as he looked out at the arena and its combatants, one of whom was like a sister to him, he sat in the darkness in a large brown chair while eight pairs of eyes looked out from the darkness as well at the arena, five of whom he had met in Venturil the other three beings, well from the looks of their eyes they were to be greatly feared, but if anything they were more guards than much else. Sipping his bourbon, and then lighting his cigar, Scandal crossed his leg over the other and watched as the arena matches would begin. He'd keep quiet this time, and he would silently reward the one who he thought of as a sister whether she won or not. "Azrathi, this is how non saurian people fight, in the arena." He said softly to pair of eyes closest to him, who kept themselves from the light. Her low growl of interest was all that she replied.


Khitti || Still Tenbatsu Kaji continued to glow that deep red, Khitti getting quite the earful from Seika--though thankfully for everyone else, she was the only one to hear it. Khitti rolled her eyes at the sword, her attention mostly on the fight as it started, “Look. I know what I’m frakkin’ doing, Seika. You know, I wouldn’t have to worry about things so damned much if I’d finally get my magic from Cyris. I’ve been training overtime--even when I was pregnant! I’m even running a guild in his name--I deserve to have magic again!” This had been frustrating her for awhile and it showed, the sword’s red glow returning to its usual gold. “I’m sorry… I’m just really stressed right now, Seika. The world feels like it’s on my shoulders again and I wasn’t wanting it anytime soon.” With a huff, olive-green eyes scanned the ring; Ernest made his opening attack and Lanara took her turn as well. In an attempt to cover any emotions that had flared, Khitti cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Woooo! Go, Lanara!”


Aira sits perched in the judge’s box, elbows resting on her thighs as she leans slightly forward in her seat, her copper gaze lingering on the match, as Ernest opens up with a shot from his twin crossbows. “Oh, I found out who was supposed to be the judge, got him drunk, convinced him to go on a date with me this evening instead, and then look his spot as judge.” This is all spoken to the prime hunter in a nonchalant tone, as if she were merely commenting on the weather outside. As Lana easily dodges the first arrow, Aira gives a shake of her head. “What the heck is she wearing?!” She asks with a wrinkle of her nose.


Trent was not prepared for the swift speed in which the shriveled shell of what he assumes was once a mortal man made his first move. Trent turned toward his left, an involuntary reaction of being startled, and wound up narrowly being missed by the marksman's bolt. Narrowly. A small spattering of red stains the gritty surface of the arena's floor as a small flesh wound mars the upper portion of the human's bicep. As if sensing danger, one by one the runes along the silver gauntlet light up, a blue azure flame encasing the entirety of the gauntlet as it powered itself for combat. Supernatural speed would be Trent's savior; A speed in which he himself did not quite control. The gauntlet lifted defensively, and blue flame suddenly flared out into the shape of a rather large heater shield. Like some sort of ghostly force field, the makeshift barrier took the brunt of both crossbow bolts with a gentle FWOOSH as they bounced off of its enchanted surface. As quickly as it had appeared, the shield melted back into a surface flame along the arm, and Trent readied himself for his attack. Ernest's running was cause for concern, the blonde haired man taking as much time as he was allotted to make note of those icy footprints. Steeled gaze turns toward Lanara and he observed the shape and familiarity of the doll in which she wielded. Figuring that her attack would be focused on the mummified marksman, Trent lifted the silver gauntlet in the woman's direction and lobbed a single azure fireball- An act meant to knock the woman off her feet whilst he figured out his next plan of attack.


Ernest didn't like the sound of that, and slammed one of his weapons back into his holster with the same speed he'd used to draw them. He hadn't quite gotten through drawing his counter before the first of the jabs to his legs came, and he very unceremoniously flopped to one side, landing hard on his elbow with a hiss of pain. He flexed his legs to try and move them—it had been a long time since the undead had felt any sort of pain, and he needed to know his limbs were still functional. They were. Excellent. He decided to nip this problem in the bud right here. Lanara wasn't the only one who'd done homework. Before getting up from the ground, staying where he was—as a way of making Lanara see him as less of a threat and focus her attention wholly on Trent and that fireball—he slipped his now-free hand into his longcoat and removed a special crossbow bolt that gleamed with a rather sickly blue light. The witch wanted to play dirty, hmm? Two could do that. He slammed the bolt into his weapon and fired, aiming low, to strike her thigh or butt just like she'd struck him. The curse attached to the bolt was a particularly vicious one and one of his favorites, with a slight tweak—instead of targeting a specific location on a person's body, it targeted a particular person's body. In this case, Lanara. And in the case of the curse itself? He called it the Curse of the Tyrant's Dissent, and it encased its victim in a body-hugging antimagic field. It'd be good for protecting her against any magical attacks used on her—and also absolutely wreck any chance she had of casting a spell until she got herself de-cursed. Sure, she still had her blades, but he was certain he could beat those. The automatic defenses of Trent would be harder to deal with, but he still had a plan for those as well—and he got back up to keep running, cocking his crossbow and letting it reload another unenchanted bolt.


Orikahn barely processes Aira's explanation; it's plain the idea hasn't registered. "Hm." The great cat's tail gives a swish as his head turns this way and that, following the flow of combat with the bulk of his attention, and eagerly at that. Something about action and, uh, *violence.* It obviously appeals to him. "So you're the understudy," Kahn mutters back. The abrupt eruption of azure combustion is a flashy surprise, one that sets the feline's whiskers standing on end and his eyes aglow. "Now look at THAT," he roars with delight through a big, fanged grin. Bright, highly animated things hold a special place in the feline's heart. So much for impartiality. "Fight!" He cheers them on. "Fight!"



Aira momentarily breaks her gaze from the fight to stare at Orikahn’s back, her mouth hanging open slightly in mock offense. Before she even thinks about it, she aims a kick between his shoulder blades—it’s not enough to hurt him or cause him to falter in anyway, but enough to let him know she heard that comment. “Quiet you, or I’ll get Lana to make me one of those dolls of you,” she warns with a grin, pointing towards the witch who was stabbing the Ernest poppet with gusto. As Trent’s fireball makes its way towards Lanara she sucks in a breath between her teeth and leans forward even more, her face nearly even with Kahn’s.


Lanara is so focused on the effect of her voodoo doll that she nearly forgets that there’s a third party in the ring. Nearly. She turns her head to the right at the precise moment that the fireball heads her way, and her tapered ears pick up the roar of the crowd, and a particular shout that is meant for her ears only. It was Khitti, and though Lana doesn’t have the time to reflect on the location of the redhead, she does hear a few in the crowd that had come to support her, and that one word, ‘Go’ which is exactly what she does. She goes… To the left! Narrowly dodging the azure flame as it advances on her, the elf expertly performs a pirouette, and as her dancer’s body glides around the ring that tail wildly flicks from side to side, seeking its fill of blood. If Ernest or Trent were to pursue the brunette, they’d be met with a wicked lashing of the razor-lined enchanted tail. The Ernest voodoo doll is dropped, as though it were only good for one use, or maybe she’d retrieve it later, as she looks from the corpse-boy to the spellblade, wondering which one she should take out first. Trent was the latest to attack her, and her fingers coil around the remaining bag at her belt, one with a voodoo doll that bore a close resemblance to the blue eyed male. She gives him a smirk, delighted that she had evaded his fireball, though she wondered how he would manage to avoid her mental attack. She prays that the runes on his armor are only against magical or physical-type attacks, as she intends to jab the exact same location where Trent had earlier been struck, repeatedly. His bicep would hurt like hell in the morning, and need advanced healing. However… It’s at this exact moment that the razor is held over the bicep, about to pierce through the doll, that the back of her right thigh is struck by an arrow. Lanara knows she’s been silenced as her entire body ceases to have that electrical tingling sensation and the doll in her hand is nothing more than a harmless doll at this point. Still, to test it, she stabs the doll and keeps a close watch on Trent, thinking the anti-magic field would dissipate over time, and not knowing just how advanced the curse was that Ernest had placed upon her form. It does nothing, the blonde merely plots his next attack and his bicep goes unscathed from her shanking of the voodoo doll. Still, Lanara was nothing if not resourceful, and knowing that she had to rely on hand-to-hand combat techniques and quick reflexes if she wished to be the victor of this match, she forms a plan. The elf remains in a defensive crouch, glaring at Trent, though in reality she’s focusing on the footfalls of the corpse, counting the beats per second, as one would to music. Like a song, the dance instructor forms a beat in her own head, and waits until Ernest is nearly lined up with the rear of the ring, almost behind Trent, and she charges at the spellblade, before lunging into the air and aiming a kick to his chest. Whether or not the kick meets its target, the swooshing of that deadly tail would meet its target, and Lana would fly over the ropes and hopefully onto the form of Ernest, if she timed it correctly. Hopefully, the freefall from above would send the male and his crossbow to the floor, and if so, Lana would straddle him and aim a head butt to his face, with the intent of her razor-bladed cat ears carving into the decaying face of the male.


Scandal eyes returned to the arena, as he had previously gotten himself some drinks as well as been caught up in conversation with his unseen guests. "Ah, some action, how interesting." He said his voice be kept in the confines of the booth, he'd avoid exposing himself into the light this box was created for privacy afterall, "She certainly understands the art of presenation, does she not Scandal?" Growled his unseen companion Azarathi. Scandal felt the soft touching of his mind, he wasn't sure if it was her or if it was the smoking Whatever it was, it was certainly relaxing. "Indeed she does, indeed she does."


Trent was somewhat relieved that his attack had missed its mark. He wasn't exactly the most aggressive type, and would much prefer not to injure someone outside of a means to protect his own life. He knew not of Lanara or Ernest, and had gone into this fairly blind. Of whatever they were capable, or what sort of persons they were, in Trent's mind, were not of an evil nature. They were here for glory, and perhaps like him, gold. The undead man was first watched, the talon-like digits of the silver gauntlet folding into a fist as he tried to figure out the man's goal. So far, Ernest' attack had been focused on Lanara, which meant that he himself were safe from at least one party- For now. Lanara on the other hand was most likely not all too happy with being nearly a toasty witch and this was made evident when Trent spied the voodoo doll in her hand. The fact that it looked like him was surprising. Trent seemed slightly fearful, and maybe even a little offended, but when her attacks came up short he sighed in relief and maybe even smiles a little. This moment of respite is suddenly cut off when the swift elf landed her blow in the center of Trent's chest plate, knocking the man back with a sizeable amount of force. He tumbles back with a loud groan, rolling once, twice, and finally three times along the arena floor. It would take a moment for the dust to settle, the human prone and in obvious pain. The metallic material of his chest plate was tough, but that blow had quite a bit of kinetic force. There is no doubt about it, he would be feeling that for a few days. The runes on the gauntlet flared, the sentient hand soon coming to life as a reactionary measure to its guardian's current predicament. It lifts, splaying its fingers outward so that the razor tips were aimed for the dirt in which the man lay. They came down with force, digging deep into the hardened arena floor with much less effort than it should have taken. Suddenly, the large sigil in the palm pulsates with a large amount of force, causing one of the runes along the forearm to suddenly dim to black. It would take a moment or two, but the attack would come to light as the floor beneath wherever Ernest and Lanara happened to be situated started to rumble. The floor cracked and shifted, soon to shoot up with enough speed to send the pair airborne should they not evade it in time. This would give Trent time to rise to his feet and dust himself off to survey the aftermath.


Khitti watched in silence now as the three of the fighters did their best to win. Her attention shifted over to Kahn and Aira briefly, a slight frown pulling at her lips. She’d made up her mind to go talk to one of them soon, but she hadn’t the courage to do so just yet. Maybe soon. Trent’s odd gauntlet pulled her line of sight back towards the fight however not long after the thought of the Ranger’s Guild crossed Khitti’s mind. The gauntlet wasn’t exactly like both of Celaeno’s, but it still intrigued the templar nevertheless. Hrm. His movements seemed… off. He seemed like he was spooked too easily by the attacks that came at or went past him. He could definitely do with a bit of training. “I miss teaching, Seika.” The sword pulsed softly in response. “I’m not sure if Encara is the student type, or else I’d teach her what I knew about the dark arts.” There was more than just the knowledge of dark magic she could impart but… “Bleh.” Khitti folded her arms across her chest and returned to silence, Tenbatsu Kaji nudging her shoulder somewhat, comfortingly.


Orikahn is about to snag a flagon of beer from a passing vendor's tray, but the ale runner is able to dodge his grasp with surprising alacrity. A good thing, too, as Kahn should be officiating. This tiny drama plays itself out just as Aira rears to kick Kahn square in the back, eliciting an "oof" of surprise from the massive feline. Well, he's slacked off enough this fight, and things were starting to really heat up. In a single fluid shift, Orikahn turns the momentum imparted by the kick into a graceful leap downward. His expression turns serious, his eyes turn critical, and he circles the ring. Ear aright, whiskers pert, and gaze aglow, he now guards the fighters every move with rapt scrutiny. The fight is growing vicious, and Kahn has his duty.


Ernest grinned widely as Lanara's magic was so swiftly dispelled. Admittedly, this would make attacking her a bit more challenging, but it also meant that she wouldn't have any way of redirecting his crossbow bolts away from her. He continued to run around the ring as the pair fought each other, each of those ice footprints a little different than the last, coming closer to making a complete circle around the group--and when Trent went down to Lanara's attack, he grinned wider and poured on the speed, trying to finish his plan--and that was when the witch leaped off of Trent and began to descend towards him. "Funny thing," he growled under his breath, as he energized the runes on his jacket and hat, igniting both and covering his whole body in bright flames, "about falling." The intent wasn't to harm her--after all, she had that antimagic field around her body, his magical flames would go out when she got close--but to startle her, and make her question. Did she know she was immune to magic, or was her own magic merely off? Did she feel lucky today? Well, did she? And it was in that moment that he fired the loaded crossbow. Straight at her falling form, even as he deliberately took a dive. With no magic to redirect the bolt, and her own momentum in midair, he felt it was a pretty solid option for attack. The problem with taking a dive, however--she'd already planned on landing on him. Straddling him was easy, before he could get back to his feet--but the scarecrow was -fast-, and as her head moved back to slash him, his crossbow was pressed firmly into her gut, already cocked and loaded again. "Wouldn't do that if I were--" he started, but then the ground rumbled below him. His free hand twitched, his second crossbow was unholstered, and his arm crossed over his body, firing a shot at Trent to try and disrupt the magic below them before he was knocked skyward. If he was, he'd fire the shot with the gun he'd had pressed against Lanara, mostly out of reflex. If he wasn't, he'd take the opportunity to crossbow-whip her in the schnoz with the second crossbow, fire the shot anyway, and take the moment of her disorientation to try and slide out from under her and keep running.


Lanara (Post 1 of 2) sees the man set himself aflame and its then that she recalls the fight between Eirik and Shishi, and she knows that it was this pathetic, undead, crossbow-wielding, poor excuse of a cowboy that had disrupted their fight, and in turn had put Lana, a mere elf in the audience, into the line of fire. She remembers being beaten by the guards, the way the referee Janita had been biased and declared her ex-fiance a cheater, and how Gevurah had placed her disgusting drow hands on Lana’s hair and bashed in her skull. This is all the strength that Lana needs to fully unleash hell on Ernest. This was no longer a mere fight in the ring, this was going to be a bloodbath when she was through with him, as she wanted to taste the revenge she had sought. The crossbow is lifted, however, she spins to the left, while in mid-air, her catlike reflexes kicking in at the last second, as the arrow flies wildly in the air. Did it just strike a drow cheerleader?! Whoops! She may have dodged that arrow, however, as she falls she doesn’t even worry about the flames, as their forms collide. She was now on top of Ernest, and as gross as his decaying form appeared, she wasn’t above lifting her hands to claw at his mummified face, and aiming her head for his upper body, neck, and face. He presses the cocked and loaded bold to her gut, and her chocolate hues widen, as though she didn’t expect him to be –that- fast, and as he issues his threat, he’d find she’s equally as sneaky and swift, as her stiletto dagger is tugged from her belt and pressed to the males groin. “You unleash that bolt, and I will castrate your corpse. What will it be, cowboy?” Lana leans forward a tad, as the arrowhead dips into her toned stomach, not an ounce of fear flicking in her gaze, as she gives Ernest a teasing wink. It’s at this moment that Kahn gracefully leaps down and begins to circle the ring, and Lana lifts her head to peer over at Trent, who she had knocked out of the ring entirely and had sent sprawled onto the floor of the arena. She slightly frowns, as she wasn’t normally the type to harm another, though she needed the gold for the sanctuary and to reclaim her title as a worthy contender. She had lost once in this very ring, she wouldn’t want to lose a second time!


(Post 2 of 2) The witch freezes as she hears a faint rumbling, as at first she thinks that it’s the curse lifting and her magic returning, but then she feels the ground begin to vibrate beneath her, and she knows that Trent is much more than he seems to the naked eye. Those runes aren’t merely for decoration. Lana and Ernest exchange a ‘look’ and as they both are thrust upwards towards the ceiling, she rolls off of his form at the last minute as the bolt is released, however, the second crossbow does bop her on her right cheek as she turns her head, and she sees stars. Her eyes are swimming with tears from the contact of the heavy bow, and rock and debris are pouring all over the area as the ground continues to rumble and the petite witch covers her head and face and curls into a ball. Eventually, she is brought back to the ground, and she lands with a sickening thud, and the crunching of her left wrist, as she lands on her side. She’s weak, breathless, and there’s blood pouring out of her nose, but still, the fight must go on. Slowly, and shakily, she crawls to the side of the ring, pulling herself from the vantage point of Ernest and Trent, as she weakly lifts her head to eye the audience. There, in the rear of the room is an elderly man with a trained canine, a direwolf, from the looks of things, and it’s on him that Lanara focuses. Her magic may have been silenced, yes, however, her blessing of animal empathy could never be torn from the woman, and so after a few moments of merely catching her breath and using mindspeak to coax the beast, the animal throws his head back and howls. Before long, barking and howling sounds from all over the city of Craughmoyle echo back to the direwolf, and about a dozen dogs and wolves, of various sizes race into the underground pit, intent on answering Lanara’s call. She lifts her head, and points, first at Ernest, and then at Trent, and the canines give chase, drool pouring from their mouths, as they seek to devour their prey.


Scandal looked at the overall carnage unfolding and at first felt the emotion of worry but it was suddenly lost as four taloned grey skinned hands stroked his shoulder, "We should go Scandal, if we plan on returning before sunset." Azarathi voice said with its soothing tone, his mind being stroked. "Of. Course." Rising from his chair the pairs of eyes in the room exit by the main door and the three larger eye pairs journey out behind them, leaving the theater.


Khitti let out another ‘woo’ for Lanara, hoping that the cheering would give her strength to continue. But then Khitti saw the blood, and her signature frown returned, the redhead moving from her seat to the edge of the ring to keep a careful eye on the witch, Tenbatsu Kaji floating along behind her. “They take this too far sometimes…”, she muttered to herself with a sigh. She’d be here for the witch, and Trent too, if they needed healing. Her services would be extended to Ernest too but, you know, undead + holy magic = death, or at least a crispy fried mummy--Khitti knew this well, having had her own interactions with holy magic when she was a vampire. Thanks, Rorin.


Trent smirks a little when the arcane mastery pays off. it wasn't like he had any control over the action, or that it was his grand master plan- Most of it was just based on trusting that gauntlet to do most of the dirty work. That and a little bit of luck. That luck was about to run out, however. The magic cancelling crossbow bolt nailed the human in the shoulder, causing Trent to cry out in pain. The gauntlet lifted, readied a firebolt, and suddenly fell limp. Each and every rune on the gauntlet darkened, and where once sentience took hold, now was naught but a lifeless appendage. Trent was mortified. Not once had he seen the thing be taken out so easily. And while it was alarming, deep down, Trent was in some way relieved. This may have been a solution to the unpredictable nature of the accursed item had been looking for. When the pair landed, Trent made a motion to move forward, stopping only to clutch at his ribs in pain. For a smaller woman, Lanara really packs a punch. Soon, Trent turned his gaze to the sound of loud growls and snarls, the ferocious canines met with a look of pure fear. There was no way that Trent could continue this bout in his current condition. He would be torn to pieces. As an act of saving his hide, or perhaps cowardice, the man pushes through the pain with the aide of his enchanted boots and makes a straight line for the arena wall behind him. A quick leap and upward thrust have the human ascending and reaching out for the ledge in a panic. he manages to grapple on, struggling with all of his might to pull himself up. Weakened, in pain, the human managed to barely hang on, hoping that the fight is called before that ravenous pack tears him to shreds.


Orikahn must think twice before rushing into the ring. The onset of the mayhem was sudden and severe. True enough, Kahn got the blood he'd asked for, and with it came a fine calamity of stones and dogs and every other thing. "Break!" Kahn tries to shout over the pandemonium, but he doubts his voice could carry past such a cacophony. The sabertooth fills his lungs. "BREAK!" The roar belts out like a thundercrack. In the split second that follows, there's a bated hush, and even the baying dogs pause to look up before, as loud as ever, the pounding roar of the crowd presses in from every side. Meanwhile, security staff have moved to block the ringside exits, billy clubs at the ready should any of the wolves make a move toward the audience. A couple of them see Trent's plight and, not wishing him harm, offer him a hand up onto the wall and away from snapping teeth. A pair of geomancers, too, are already beginning to conjure beams of violet magic to carefully press and mold the stone of the arena wherever and however they can manage. Amid this, Kahn dares to press further in, arms spread, eager to keep Ernest and Lanara separated while the judge makes her decision.


Ernest 's eyes widened as he saw that gauntlet shut off. He checked his special ammo pocket--the Tyrant's Dissent he'd intended for Trent was gone. Seems he must've fired it by mistake. It was a lucky break, that, and it meant both people were now nearly defenseless against the amount of metal he could sling in their direction. Both crossbows spun in his hands, he cocked them against each other, and leveled them dead on each target--then tilted his head as the dogs rushed in. Immediately, he caused his longcoat to flare to life, presenting the dogs with an ancient fear of all life--fire. He hoped the blaze that surrounded him--as well as the protective runes that shielded his jacket from attacks--would be enough to ward off the dogs, as he took aim once again with another fanciful spin of his crossbows--but then Orikahn stepped into the ring, and declared it over. Just as well, Ernest felt. His opponents were right where he wanted them. He stood in the middle of the ring, weapons ready, while his competitors had had their magic disabled and lay bleeding outside the ring. Sure, he was surrounded by dogs that would surely try to eat him if he weren't on fire, but... well, not even ninjas can catch you if you're on fire.


Aira watches as Kahn uses her swift kick as a moment to join the fray down by the ring where the fighting intensifies. The vixen laces her fingers together and stretches her arms outwards, resulting in a few satisfying pops from her knuckles. She continues to watch with bated breath as Ernest and Lanara grapple—crossbow to gut and knife to groin. The vixen pushes herself to a stand, making her way to the edge of the platform and craning her neck to get a better look. The sound of rumbling interrupts her concentration, though, and her copper eyes flick towards Trent and that gauntlet of his. The other two go flying and the vixen winces as she waits for them to make impact with the ground. Everyone seems to be spent, and Aira looks towards the feline, expecting him to call the match. However, before he can do so, a dire wolf towards the back, a beast she hadn’t even noticed before, howls, and soon it is echoed by canines in and around the area. She is without her bow and quiver of arrows and she has no magical abilities to speak of; however, she is about to jump down and assist in calming the incoming storm when Orikahn’s booming roar causes a hush to fall over combatants, spectators, and dogs alike. She blinks a few times and focuses on those below as order is attempted to be restored while she contemplates her ruling. Arms cross over her chest and she chews on her bottom lip for a few minutes. She’s not confident that her voice can carry over the noise and commotion, so the vixen hops down from her platform and makes her way towards the ring—hopefully her presence would cause enough of a hush that she could be heard. Once she joins Orikahn, Ernest, and Lanara, she holds up her hands and waits for some semblance of silence to fall. “This was well fought,” she compliments and offers a nod to the two before her and then to Trent who has been rescued up the wall. “You are all fierce fighters with your own set of impressive skills. Color me impressed,” she says with a grin. “However, there can only be one winner here this evening. One whose creativity shined through. And that title goes to…” Erring on the side of theatrics, Aira gives a very pregnant pause before turning and gesticulating towards the witch. “Lanara!” The vixen quite literally takes a few steps backwards as the upsurge of noise almost knocks her off her feet. Heck yeah. Girl power and all that jazz.


Lanara had watched as Trent darted up the wall and the dogs leapt into the air, biting at the spell-blades heels, though he was pulled to safety. She isn’t even sure where Ernest was at this point, as the arena was in such disarray and he likely was fleeing from the hounds, and as she slowly rises to her feet, Kahn calls the fight. Instantly, Lana lifts her arm and whistles, hoping to garner the attention of the direwolf that had called the others to her aide, and they lock gazes. A final howl is given and the dogs seem to calm down from their frenzy, though one does snap at one of the security guards wielding a billy club and clasps his jaw around the man’s ankle. The dwarf cheerleader that took the bolt to her gut is being treated by some medics in the corner, and Kahn is making certain to stand between Lana and Ernest, in fear that the pair would go at each other again. The witch is handed a towel and she dabs daintily at her bloody nose, wiping the gore from her face, as she looks expectantly up at the judges booth, and awaits Aira’s final verdict. Two of the stray dogs, both black-and-tan with erect ears, and muscular forms, stand on either of Lanara’s sides, as though still offering the woman protection. Her broken wrist is cradled against her stomach, as her free hand reaches down to scratch one of the shepherd’s behind the ear, and she feels her anxiety dissipate. Aira leaves the booth and enters the ring, and Lana is beckoned forth to stand inside the ring with Ernest and Kahn, and she finds that her attention is drawn to Aira. The blonde was pausing after complimenting the trio on their match, and Lana –hated- when things were purposely drawn out, though as SHE is named the winner, her eyes widen in disbelief and she can’t help but grin. “Ohmygosh!!! Really?! I won!? Thank you so much!” The cheering of the crowd is so loud that she waits until some of the excitement dies down, before she looks to Ernest, and then over at Trent, and she gives them both a nod, “You both fought well, thank you for this match.” The familiar tingle returns to her form as her magic is replaced, and the curse either wore off, or Ernest had dispelled the field. Either way, Lana is more than grateful.


Trent was thankful for the helping hands that pulled him up and to safety, taking time to rest now on the edge of the arena wall as the place fell silent. He eyed his two opponents and those that hosted the event, feeling somewhat accomplished in this all too hectic brawl. He still clutched at his side, but he held some sort of smile, a sign of which to tell those that may be concerned that he would live to fight another day. With the fight called and the announcement of the winner soon made, Trent did his best to clap for the victor. Should either Ernest or Lanara look in his general direction, Trent would offer up a bit of a wave and a salute. His way of showcasing his respect for their participation- And not killing him in the process. While slightly disheartened that he did not claim victory this evening, Trent felt proud of himself for lasting as long as he did and for proving to himself that he were capable of holding his own. Without much to celebrate and a need for rest, the human soon swivelled off of the edge of the wall and disappeared into the roar of the cheering crowd.


Khitti was certainly happy to see that Lanara won. If she was needed, she’d linger about for a bit. And if not? Khitti would make her way to the inn nearby. The urge to go to Venturil was there and she’d be taking the night to figure out whether or not she was going to follow through with it.


Ernest found himself thoroughly confused. He'd -had- this. Had the battle gone on just a few more moments--but no, it hadn't gone on those few moments he'd needed, and Lanara's gymnastic ability had certainly been flashier than the twice he'd fallen to the ground. The judge couldn't see the fact that he'd dampened their magic--just that he'd made a few shots and run in a circle. As he thought about it, the answer became clear, and he spun his weapons again and holstered them. Unfortunate, but comprehensible. Next time, he wouldn't make the same mistakes. Next time, he'd bring pyrotechnics. He tipped the brim of his hat to Lanara and doused his flames, then tipped his hat to Trent as well. It had been a good fight.


Lanara would accept her prize of gold from the Master of Ceremonies, and smile up at Orikahn, before she tilts her head in the direction of Aira, and gives her a small wave. “Thank you for choosing me as the winner, and I hope you two have a nice evening building beds and all that jazz!” The elf would then seek out one of the healers, possibly even Khitti, and have her wrist healed, before heading home for the night. She wouldn’t be alone on the journey back to Sage Forest, either, as she had two dogs flanking her sides, each in need of a home in the near future.