RP:Hit The Floor
Summary: It's fight night in Cenril and Khitt's still the reigning champion, until Cresente comes along.
♫ One minute you're on top
The next you're not, watch it drop
Making your heart stop
Just before you hit the floor
One minute you're on top
The next you're not, missed your shot
Making your heart stop
You think you won
And then it's all gone ♫
-- Hit The Floor - Linkin Park
Sandy Beach, Cenril
Khitt || The weekly bare-knuckle boxing fight night was well underway at Cenril’s beach. Khitt had long since persuaded the event coordinators to have it at least 2 nights a month in Cenril, and tonight was the port town’s turn for the bloody brawl. A massive crowd had formed, the fact that the second place winner from the Vailkrin Blood Brawl and soon to be contender in the Titans of Winter tournament had brought in wealthy people of all sorts so that they could see Khitt Herzegler’s last normal fight before anything tournament-related.
Khitt || The way he’d been fighting of late had been angrier. He looked restless, like a tiger trapped in a cage, as he circled the ring with his opponent still somehow standing. The orcs he’d gone up against always had something to prove, like their very honor depended on it, and this one was no different. Blood leaked from contusions on both of their faces, splatters here and there staining Khitt’s purple button-up shirt and the bandages that he always wrapped his hands in before the match. The orc was barely standing, and after a few more fast punches, Khitt unleashed his trademark right hook on his broken-toothed opponent, sending more blood--and the orc himself--flying backwards into the crowd behind him. The cheers were almost instantaneous. Khitt had won… and yet… he still looked like he wanted to fight. More and more and more, he craved. Despite the bloodlust that didn’t seem to fade, his breathing was ragged from the broken ribs within, but still he wanted to continue. “NEXT,” he said, as loudly as he could, waiting for the match coordinators to find him someone new to take his aggression out on.
Cresente || From the makeshift bleachers in the sand, several people do not cheer. Whether it is because they fear the champion of the boxing ring or envied him was unclear, but there is one gaze that is neither of those things. Irisless eyes from beneath a hooded cloak watch the orc be propped up by what is presumably the posse he came in with, and the eyes shift to the way the event coordinators approach a half-giant and another orc who both shift backwards and away from them. Crescente stands, lowering his hood. A mop of unkempt black hair nearly obscures the age upon his face and the deep scar over his left eye that would have removed said eye in another life. As the event coordinators approach, the man runs a hand that has seen several years in the sun over a beard tinged with the first signs of silver. “Aren’t you going to save a bit of fight for Frostmaw, lad?” A baritone with a Schezerade accent and a tinge of amusement calls out to the redheaded fighter. Crescente takes off the cloak, revealing a deep green button-down tucked into casual charcoal breeches, and a pair of ebon wings neatly folded against his back. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s someone rather than me you’d like to fight tonight.”
Khitt || The crowd hushed as Cresente spoke, verbally inserting himself into the next fight. Khitt gave a tilt of his head, his back towards the avian for the moment before he completely turned himself around to face the other male. He stared at the other in silence for what seemed like forever, processing Cresente’s words--or attempting to do so at least. At least, Khitt let out a ‘tch’ and gifted the avian with a cruel, lopsided grin. For a moment though, there’s a twinge of pain shining in those olive-green eyes. “You know nothing.” Bandaged hands were put to Khitt’s own chest for a moment, a pearly glow emitting from beneath his shirt as he used Valaane’s magic to heal his ribs enough to be able to fight without a hindrance. It somewhat healed the wounds on his face as well, but the blood would soon be flowing again once the fight started. “Come on then. Hit me.” Bruised hands were balled up into fists, the adrenaline flowing once again, ridding him of his pain for the time being. When the avian was ready, the ring bell would be struck, signalling for the match to begin.
Cresente gives a cold smile that fails to reach anywhere past his lips as he enters the ring, hands sans tape, but with a worn platinum wedding band on his left hand that the organisers give an approving nod for the avian man to remain wearing. “You’re right. I only know what I read in the papers, Mr. Herzegler. Perhaps I was projecting.” Crescente toes the line and sets his jaw as the bell is struck. He is well-practised, but seems to show restraint, beginning the match with a straight right-handed jab and a left cross in quick succession, as if testing the waters with Khitt to see for himself how quick the reigning champion moves in comparison. With each throw, his fists quickly return as he sets up for a slip to counter.
Khitt || The avian’s words were not the punch that Khitt had been expecting. Of course the Cenril papers had noticed the severe lack of a certain ship in Cenril’s wharf. A severe lack of a certain redhead going to said dock. A severe lack of two blondes and a couple kids frequenting the bakery and restaurant. And a monumental surge of agitation on the redhead’s part, as well as both he and his feminine counterpart hiding away in their massive apartment for weeks on end, unless something desperately needed taking care of for the guilds, or unless it was fight night for Khitt. Or they needed more alcohol. Cresente’s words brutalized Khitt inside moreso than his punches did on the outside. He took both hits, barely feeling the physical pain that radiated throughout his body, for the emotional pain had already taken its turn first. Everything felt like it was in slow motion and yet he could do nothing to stop any of what was happening. He could not stop the other’s punches, nor could he control his own jabs or the uppercut that was sent flying upwards towards the avian’s chin, nor could he control the slip that avian managed before the uppercut was to hit. The punch hit nothing but air, but it was like hitting a brick wall to Khitt. And it only enraged him, sending him into a barbarian-like fury, a flurry of fists offered up now to his opponent.
Cresente || There is a curious glint in Crescente’s eye as for a brief moment, he sees horror flicker across his opponent’s face. Strange, he hadn’t even been trying. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, he thinks as he watches the first throw Khitt makes land on empty. It was a mistake on his part to take his eyes off of Khitt’s shoulders and look at the trajectory of the uppercut, though, and the second jab makes a clean impact on his cheekbone. His arms are raised to block the next flurry as he shifts into an alternating sequence of rolls and slips to try to shake the enraged redhead. Crescente’s eyes have glazed over, as though he were somewhere far from here as he finally rebounds and aims to fake out Khitt with an alternate series of hooks for him to block that will be interrupted with an uppercut and a straight jab.
Khitt || The reminder of things the papers spoke of haunted Khitt, moreso than any ill deed he might’ve done in his lifetime. In the space where the avian had slipped and rolled from, Khitt only saw -her-. The giant pink elaborate curls on either side of her head that had framed her lovely face and those emerald eyes that had always brought him such joy to see daily. A panic attack took Khitt and he could no longer breathe. He could no longer see straight, think straight. Tears welled up in the usually stoic man’s eyes, as he stared at what seemed like nothing to everyone else, and poured like waterfalls that knew no end. At the last possible second, he tried to fend off the fakeout, but ultimately took that uppercut and jab full force. The image of the woman dissipated, leaving only Crescente in her wake. Leaving only a kind of pain that no amount of Valaane’s light could heal. Khitt’s olive-green eyes rolled back into his head as his body made its way to the sand beneath them. Maybe death would take him now? No, he wouldn’t be that lucky. Him and Khitti never were. Murmurs left the crowd as the witch’s body hit the ground with a thud, leaving Crescente the night’s winner.
Cresente || As Khitt’s body hits the floor, the avian man’s eyes widen. Despite his focus on the fight and his thoughts willed away by force, the stuttering in Khitt’s movements before the final fakeout had not escaped him. The shocked silence from the crowd are replaced with shouts and jeers from most of the participants, mainly from those who lost a paycheck or two on a bad bet. Crescente’s arm is taken and raised up by the organisers as he is announced the winner, but… “There’s no pride to be found in this.” The staccato of his disgusted voice is little more than a butterknife against the steel walls of the beach’s chorus tonight. He takes his arm back and crouches down with a grunt that betrays his age. “Here I thought you might be in need of my services, but how wrong I was. Get up, lad.” Crescente orders, gripping Khitt’s wrist. He looks annoyed, but not for the reason he might think. “I expect a better fight from you next time. And there will be a next time.”