GTB III. Imported from live Gaia guild archive.
Description: Unlike last year, the stone platform has been removed, making the entire ring nothing but a sandy ground. A twenty foot wall surrounds the ring to protect the audience in this open ceiling stadium.
Field Measurements: Ring: 70 yard diameter
Ten Count Boundary: As soon as a fighter enters the bleachers, the count begins. The flying rule remains, as well.
--Locker room, prior to the match.--
Deitric took a long sip from the plastic bottle of Name Brand (tm) water he had, sitting stooped on a bench with his elbows on his knees. Behind him, the TV buzzed idly. In his solitary concentration, only smatterings of the coverage reached his mind, fragments of sentences that passed through his hearing and didn't seem to touch him. Idly, his hands worked away, taping around, over and under his knuckles in a paper-thin layer of athletic tape.
"*In an upset, champion Deitric Jocasta..
...set to fight fellow finalist..
..Omi Barsait..
..Most controversial match-up of Round One..*"
The warrior stood up slowly, tilting his head to the left and right to shift his black hair from the front of the shoulders to the back, unrolling his headband to tie it in proper bandanna-style over the top of his head. He slipped on his fingerless gloves over his hands, feeling the black clothe fit snugly over his hands, letting his fingers bend and splay without hindrance. He had everything else in order.
"No win-loss predictions at this time.."
His hand reached out and jammed his finger into the power button, the screen flashing to blank darkness while the door shut behind the GTB champion. He turned to his right and began to head towards the arena.
--Now.--
Deitric vaulted over the low wall that separated the ground-level locker rooms and coliseum facilities from the fighting area, landing with a deadened thud of leather boots on sand. Sand; that was a bit of a change from the previous set-up. When the crowd saw the dark-skinned tribesman, they immediately let loose a tumultuous roar, vague chants of his name hidden in the overwash of voices. Boos, chants, jeers, cheers, it didn't matter - they all melded together into one overwhelming storm of noise, rocking the foundations around them. His entrance was never that flashy - he only walked in by whatever happened to be the best means available to him. It was better to save the entertainment for the fight, after all.
The warrior made his way towards the center of the ring, raising a hand up to the cheering crowd without breaking his typical calm-before-the-storm look of stoicism. He let his hand drop as the crowd began to abate as they waited for the other contender; the second finalist from the previous year.
Deitric hadn't expected to fight the man so early in the competition, given their previous meeting, but that was the luck of the draw. His turquoise eyes stared out across the pit of sand at the other entrance, waiting for his fated opponent to appear. It was a look as telling as stone - impossible to fathom what could have been going on in the man's mind. One thing was clear: he intended to defend his title and keep hold of it.
The roar of the crowd!
Unlike Deitric's rather showy entrance, the other fighter whom would be participating in this prestigious match very slowly faded into sight from the southern tourney entrance. Sucking in a tuft of air, then just as easily letting it exhale - Gaian Tenkaichi Budoukai II Finalist Omi Barsait was visible to the throngs of spectators screaming & howling for bloodshed unabashedly.
The long-haired man, snake pauldrons groaning just a hint whilst those shoulders swayed to the dark-clad man's slow & steady steps, looked humorless. Lips shut tight, head tilted forward just enough that those amber-brown eyes of his glowered ahead for miles; tightened fists humming along with each stride, gauntlets gripping the would-be champion's fists skin-tight.
It wouldn't take long, traversing those waves of sand the crowd abound wanted stained crimson red, to reach Omi's reputable opponent. Stopping hardly an inch from the tribesman, his cosmetic glasses long ago cast aside - Barsait's eyes unwaveringly pierced into Deitric's.
A number of things were to note. One, being how close Barsait walked over to the reigning champ; another.. being how those eyes of his didn't blink once, screaming open which was a good indicator of the energy roaring beneath the man's flesh. Yet another, was that despite the stomping, heckling, and screaming all around- filling the air like a deadly haze threatening to drown the return fighters, crowned with the man who took Barsait's chance at victory that time ago by force standing right before him..
..not a single drop of sweat was visible. Not a single hesitant shake to the body. Pupils not wavering even a single picometer.
It would have been easy to brag. Taunt his opponent, or offer works of good faith. Proclaim into his opponent's face how victory was nigh, or flat-out launch an attack now, shredding apart the standards of good sportsmanship. But that was not how Omi would be handling the matter.
Instead, all he did was utter fourth in a low, booming tone: "Good luck, friend." - razor tipped teeth mashing at the pronunciation of every single word. All business and no play, it would seem.
One thing was clear: he intended to claim his title, if it meant ripping the glory from the reigning champion's hands.
The tribesman didn't budge an inch from his metaphorical line in the sand. The summer wind tugged at stray strands of hair and nipped at the sleeves of his leather jacket. He barely gave a response when Omi appeared; just an inclination of his head in respect, no emotion present on his face. He didn't appear cold hearted, however, merely calm. Relaxed, even.
When Barsait finally came to a stop in front of Deitric, the differences became apparent. They were both lean, and were built in some manner or fashion as one might expect from a fighter, but the black-haired brave towered over his fellow finalist by several inches, and the depth and thickness of his musculature - even beneath his clothing - made it apparent that he outweighed the two. A guess would have put him at just somewhere over 220; solidly athletic and stoutly built, but without the girth and undue mass of some of the roaming monstrosities found on Gaia. Balanced and well rounded, while favoring physical strength.
The Khasmin man regarded Omi coolly, without any hint of ire or aggression. But the air around the two men seemed to warp and twist with the heat of the fight to come, as if the sunlight blasting the sands of the arena was creating a mirage around them. Deitric's blue-white eyes were boring down at his opponent intently, seemingly glowing and alive with an unseen energy. Like Omi, the leather and denim clad tribesman held respect for his opponent, and found the words and actions of braggarts to have no place in the ring.
"And luck be upon you, Omi Barsait - should we fight with the same agreements in place as before, to continue the tradition?" the tribesman's offered, his voice contrasting with Omi's; smooth and deep, as if the low winter winds spoke through him. While he made the offer respectfully, and considered Omi as honorable an opponent as he had ever faced, he wasn't naive - if the man sought combat while he spoke, Deitric was more than prepared, though one might never tell with his hands at his sides and his stance seemingly loose to match his relaxed features.
His head canted to the side slightly as he spoke, a gesture not entirely out of place for a hawk. It'd be a curious thing; Omi's response. One would just have to see what it would be.
A few moments' delay greeted the tribesman's words. Lips parting, Barsait solemnly nodded whilst responding in the same manner as before: "While I rather enjoy bringing things ablaze.. I of course accept the previous terms. This will be a battle of fists. Nothing else could possibly matter." Expression split by a sudden charismatic grin, Barsait nodded once more as though to confirm the deal - and to regard his opponent for the last time.
It was true. Though both were in excellent conditioning as they had to be, or rather, were forced to be in order to excel through the hells of competitions just like the very one they participated in - Deitric was a good bit taller, a good bit weightier, and just in general larger than Barsait. As the LCD screen and surrounding speakers relayed their chosen agreement, not just a few of the war-thirsting crowd groaned in disappointment; after all, they may never get to see Barsait's infamous [*Serpentine Manipulation*] art in action with these agreed terms.
However. Omi's thoughts remained clear on the matter; unshakable, stout as mountains. "*If we were to settle this any other way than how we did that last time, this would lose all meaning. We're both not the same men we were when last we met in the ring, Deitric Jocasta - that much is rather obvious.*" - "HERE! HERE!" Crossing his arms in a sudden motion, X-like in formation - both of the challenger's fists struck a point on those snake-head pauldrons each.. then quickly dropped as the pauldrons did the same.
Fingertips nimbly sliding through the bottom-base "mouths," prior to his gauntlets & pauldrons syncing together tightly - a securing "click" easily audible for Deitric's ears, Barsait's arms stayed that way. Shoulders now rounded with that 'ol chain mesh of his, it almost looked like he just slipped on some boxing gloves over a pair of hand-wrap gloves with how disproportionate the pauldrons were to his actual gauntlets; the fists jutting out through the snakes' "mouths."
There was no point in expecting unjust discourse from Deitric. Had either fighter intended foul-play before the fight truly began, Deitric could have struck Omi the moment he neared - and likewise, Omi could have begun assaulting Deitric the moment he stepped into that ring of sand which the dark-clad fighter's boots dug into so happily. This was a fight between a champion, and a would-be champion; such foolish discourse was less than useless.
An uneasy step backwards. Then another one. Then another one. Omi was both gaining distance, a mere five feet or so - and allowing Deitric the same opportunity. The last calm before the violent, violent storm. Finally reaching his designated spot, Omi's feet squared themselves with his shoulders - tight-balled fists coming up to waist level, the snake-head "mouths" & his gauntlet knuckles facing Jocasta, elbows touching his waist on their inner-sides whilst the fists jutted forward like eager dogs waiting to rip into their prey, the hands themselves turned upside down.
"*The question is, Deitric- which one of us has changed more?*" Blood boiling, his grin faded into clenched teeth; eyes watching Deitric for the slightest movement, like a hungering cobra awaiting its prey to attempt relocation. "*I'll show you with these fists of mine, Jocasta. CRANK THOSE EYES OPEN!!*"
Deitric nodded in the agreement, ignoring some of the boos rising in the crowd. There hadn't been any boos the last time the two men had faced off with the same rules in place, but people were stubborn in their ways and wants, easily forgetting that they'd enjoyed the previous spectacle.
While Omi seemed to prepare, the long-haired tribesman did the same. He reached down, pulling one tomahawk from his belt. He gave the axehead a tap with his index finger before hurling the weapon off to the side. Unlike his fellow finalist, he rarely had any manner of dramatic witticisms to present, and instead opted for silence while Barsait spoke.
**THUNK--
--THUNK**
The second tomahawk shortly followed, each one finding a mark in the inner wall of the coliseum floor. And there the weapons would stay for the duration of the bout. Afterward, he dusted his hands together, and didn't speak another word. The champion looked toward his opponent when the man finished speaking and offered the slightest of nods to indicate he had heard the man's words, if nothing else - once a fight started, it was rare to ever hear more than one or two words from the brave's lips.
Deitric slid his left foot back, scraping away the loose sand with the heel of his boot as his body turned to offer his right side forward a little more than his left. His upper-body bent forward at the waist, lowering him down to a little below Omi's height, his hands up in a loose guard with unclenched hands. Knees bent, and elbows neither tucked in nor bowed out, it was an odd mixture of striking and grappling potential, and while it brought him a little closer to the ground, it didn't diminish his size in the least.
The crowd's garbled, mingled cries were indiscernible, but the rumbling sentiment beneath the cacophony was clear enough.
FIGHT - FIGHT - FIGHT
And that was the intent.
Both of the men took a stance, and Deitric suddenly shot forward in a burst of motion, crossing the distance between them in barely three steps of his long legs, keeping his upper body lowered and his hands up as combat range became imminent. Like most heavy-weights, he could move forward across short distances with amazing speed with a push from his legs, but he couldn't actually maintain that speed for long periods of time, especially in that stance.
Then again, he didn't need to - the tribesman was pushing straight for Omi, and it looked as if he was aiming to barrel right into the man. With his shift in stance, it offered more than just a possible body-check or punch - if he so pleased, Deitric could "shoot" and get a hold of his opponent's legs to take him down. At the moment, it seemed as though all modes of attack were open - but the tribal warrior had a good record of running headlong into men and bowling them over during combat, and would do so here if Omi allowed him. But he didn't expect that.
So then what did expect?
Nothing short of war.
Given Deitric was in fact such a good hint larger than Barsait, the expected action was taken: the larger fighter intended to overtake the smaller fighter via brute force mixed with the proper level of finesse needed to obtain a resounding miniature victory. However, perhaps the tribesman would note that the very moment steps were taken towards Barsait - no, even the very first, Omi broke out into an almost fanatical grin.
Left foot lifting itself barely half an inch off the sand below, Omi took advantage of the makeshift exterior of the ground to slide about on his dominant, right leg in a sudden compact cyclone clockwise from his perspective. Indeed, Deitric was always, memorably, a balanced foe 'til it was thought he had the room to go radically down one route of offense or defense. Meanwhile, Barsait went into the conventional or the unconventional, the logically sound & astounding or the brazen & mesmerizing - but, prior to completing that quick little spin with his body weight shifting about like a hellish pendulum..
Smash! Right fist into left palm. So when Omi indeed was turned about-face, a chain-mesh covered elbow bone would be firing straight towards Deitric's right side, horizontal but angled just slightly southeast for the sake of catching his foe - the inner and longer of the two bones of the human forearm screaming straight towards Deitric's frame like a howling bullet.
To top it, mid-spin, that left leg jutted out a good 4" - and basically allowed itself to whip around, more of the mesh & one of his trademark black boots screaming about like a coil ready to flay what it struck or wrapped around, in contrast to the elbow which seemed content with firing into the approaching bodily mass of Deitric like a lance edge.
Yes, Deitric was the larger.. no, possibly even the stronger fighter. But there were many measures of strength, and Omi intended to show that quite a few were in his pocket. Jocasta intended to dominate the dark-clad man physically? Grapple him, utilize his superior mass to force the challenger into defeat? It was not so graciously simple.
Omi Barsait was quite prepared to lose a black pawn if it meant beheading the white king.
If he was conscious after the match, the brave would realize that a spin was pretty low on the list of things he had thought Omi might have done in the opening seconds of their fight. Not because it wasn't Barsait's style, or beyond the man - he liked to throw elbows, knees, and kicks, so a spin could work just fine - just that the situation at hand didn't seem like the one for such a maneuver. Spinning was a flashy move, no matter how fast you did it, and it took your eyes off your opponent, even if only for a tenth of a second.
Most people capitalized on it; Deitric didn't. That was because his move wasn't directly working off the spin; it was just in tandem with it, as they'd chosen to make their moves at the same time. He wasn't that quick on the draw, most certainly not when it came to a speed comparison between the two warriors. He wasn't reacting to the spin, he was acting with it, making a move he'd already decided upon that would set the two men on an inevitable collision course. Two actions happening independently, coming to a head in just split seconds.
Without pause, the warrior shifted his weight up hard, turning his swooping charge into an airborne leap at the last second, right at the same time Omi was going into his whirlwind spinning elbow. The dark-skinned brave knew in his subconscious that his opponent was fast, faster than he was - whatever Barsait had in store for him was going to work on some level or another. Even if he had the superhuman mental acuity to think out a new plan and change his movements then and there, he wouldn't have done it. But that was where the two men had common lines of thinking; sometimes you had to take a bit of pain in order to dish it back out. Whatever the other finalist had in store for him, Deitric would just have to take in order to deal something back.
Thu-thu-THWACK--
There was a double-bass drum-roll of bodies and body-parts smashing as Omi's elbow smashed flush into Deitric's body just above the right hip-bone. The first beat of the rhythm had barely struck when the second and third would come in, the beat of combat nearly running over itself in a feverish haste of blows and crashes.
Omi's elbow strike had struck nearly perfectly, perhaps a bit on the broader "flat" side of the elbow nearer the tricep, but nonetheless it had been jammed right into the tribesman's side. Painful, no matter how you looked at it. It didn't seem to slow him down though, but Barsait wouldn't get to have any time to wonder what sort of armor he was wearing under his leathers - and he was wearing something under there. Something that was enough to pad the blow his opponent had just delivered.
In the same ephemeral slipstream of time, the champion's knees had struck and clamped onto Omi's waist at the stomach and small of the back, his right leg beneath the other fighter's right arm, which was jammed into the long-haired brave's side. His right hand was on Omi's shoulder, not out of planning, but the human reaction to going airborne and need for balance or control. That collision in itself might have been enough to buckle or hurt Deitric's opponent, but he was never one to leave a moment un-capitalized upon; the leap and bodily collision had merely been the build up for the attack.
The third beat - hopefully uninterrupted - was Deitric's left fist, which had been set back the entire time in a south-paw stance until the leap, now came crashing down, aiming to slam into the back or side of Omi's head with steel-shod knuckles with as much weight and force behind it as he could draw upon from his charging jump. If the previous 'beats' had been bass drums, they had crescendo'd into a resounding cymbal crash, one of the tribal man's fist and Omi's skull. Normally, such a move was common to do with a tomahawk - leaping onto an opponent and smashing their skull into pieces while they were off-balance.
With any luck, the combination of overbearing weight and momentum smashing into Omi, with a heavy-handed punch to the head to top it off, would be enough to collapse the warrior beneath Deitric, leaving him in an arguably dire position. The tribesman hadn't even seen the kick that Omi had thrown - but now, there were bigger things for the challenger to deal with than hoping to kick out an ankle or shin. He had the full brunt of the bright eyed, black haired prizefighter trying to bear him to the ground.
Omi was right--
--they had changed.
Deitric had changed.
Impact! The elbow sung home into the tribesman's body, a resounding blow! Yet, Barsait, even mid-air amidst the drumbeats of war, seemed.. uninterested, if one had a good vantage point of his face. Yes, even with the second 'beat,' even with the large fighter managing what would no doubt lead to a terrible impaction unto the sandy surface below, his expression was dull.. inanimate.
Although, his body was certainly moving. If one would recall, that left fist had been pressed into the right palm, seemingly to provide support for a fierce elbow strike- and to be fair, it did this job admirably. However, as Deitric secured that right arm, Barsait's writhe body sliding up between the reigning champ's legs as much as possible prior to their firm security preventing any more movement- the sight finally came.
Jocasta's left fist.
Indeed! Deitric had lurched into a powerful, powerful blow, not only intending to smash what was most available for damage (the skull), but to as Omi predicted, utilize his superior weight and grappling capabilities to crash the amber-brown eyed warrior straight into the ground in a heap. However, in the tribesman's hurry to address what the dark-clad fighter made obvious as a threat.. it would appear he forgot to address something.
Knuckles scraping along the right palm like a knife blade, it would take a slow-action replay to see it with clarity. Yes- even Omi thrusted the blow off pre-planned maliciousness & instinct more than eyeful precision. The left fist that sprung upward off the palm, singing past the more veteran fighter's own left fist as they both greeted each other just momentarily with shared velocity, conflicting thrust.
However, something more practical would greet the head-targeted left fist of Deitric: part of Barsait's left shoulder pauldron earlier functioned onto that gauntlet-driving fist, the ornate "teeth" showing their function by scraping along the opponent's own knuckles as the powerful fist, reinforced by gauntlet knuckle tips & pauldron ridges, roared up towards what was now made readily available in their mid-air song of death!
Deitric Jocasta was going for a shot that could cause amongst other things, unconsciousness, permanent brain damage, or at the damned least, one hell of a headache- but as per' Omi's earlier mentality.. losing to gain is just fine by him. Where was the left of Omi's travelling, bones screaming into a rapid, crashing blow?
The throat. The fist would slide along the vantage point listed above, crashing furiously into the throat from Deitric's diagonal-right; even if the man clenched his chin in last second, the target was open and reachable.
While Omi could at the least tilt his head back right before it and the rest of him struck the ground, at least partially lessening the inevitable strike from hell that intended to greet him - Deitric was crashing onto the smaller fighter, entire body lurching into the tremendous blow - meaning when that fist struck with its fiery might, it was going to hit & hit hard.
Powerful strikes to the throat, as it was undoubtedly known by the tomahawk-wielding fighter, are no laughing matter. Even a light shot can cause serious damage; but a powerful blow as Omi was assuredly supplying in plush, could collapse the windpipe - causing the trachea to achieve inflammation to support healing, conversely shutting off one's ability to breath. Even if it wouldn't shut fully and result in asphyxiation, it can easily result in horrible, horrible circulation - making even the heartiest fighters winded and weak in moments, constantly short of breath and desperately trying to suck some in just to avoid blacking out - provided they're even conscious.
Was he trying to sacrifice a black rook to capture the white queen, that Omi Barsait?
Of course!
Omi could move his head away a bit, but they were on their way down, and even so, Deitric's reach was inescapable at that range - the smaller Barsait might get to retaliate, but he wasn't going to get away from the hammer when it fell. Not with the Khasmin man right ontop of him.
There was a crack of metal-shod bone striking bone as Deitric's left fist crashed into Omi's skull like a hammer without any regard for the immediate retaliation the fellow finalist had made - just as with the initial elbow, the tribesman hadn't the time to be worry about the ifs that could come from any moment of battle. Some things were simply bound to happen, one way or another.
The larger tribesman had succeeded in his leaping attack, both crashing and locking onto Omi, while managing to rain down his first strike successfully. The more lithe Barsait's own left lashed out to retaliate barely a split second after the brave's own punch connected, but the response was less severe than Deitric's own attack.
Both of the men's positioning contributed to the potential success or failure of the blow. The champion had his knees clamped to Omi's waist, and was inevitably higher up than the smaller of the two finalists, with his opponent's head just reaching up to the top of the tribesman's broad chest. Omi's right elbow was buried into Deitric's flank, while his shoulder was being pressed against by the tribesman's hand while the larger fighter was latched onto Omi's right side. Reaching across one's chest, combined with having no real torque, made for a hard attack. But both of them had no doubt been in rough positions before - attacks couldn't always be perfect.
The upward swung fist clicked painfully against the bottom right side of Deitric's neck and into part of his collarbone, the edges and ridges of the pauldron scrapping off skin and drawing pricks and dribbles of blood almost immediately. Omi had hit lower than he probably anticipated, but he had managed to strike the carotid artery in the side of the tribesman's neck, and briefly clip the breathing passage.
That was, without a doubt, more than a little painful as small iotas of blackness played along the edges of his vision while his body worked feverishly to continue pumping blood to the brain in response to the momentary pressure put onto the neck in question. It wasn't severe damage, but that didn't mean it wasn't painful, it hurt more than it looked. He hadn't struck the actual throat with enough force to damage it or disrupt his opponent's breathing, but Omi had done something - there was a catch in Deitric's breathing as it became husky and rough, eliciting a rattling "kaff, kaff, kaff" sound when he exhaled the next few times.
Would anyone in the crowd see that, though? Unlikely. In the twisted sense of time and surroundings that a warrior had during battle, it was likely that the sound of their breathing in the thunderous roar of all other sounds was just background noise, and the crowd would be hard pressed to know that Omi had just come inches from striking a very debilitating blow against the defending champion. While it hadn't struck the intended mark, it had still done damage - blood would pain the side of the brave's neck before long, for all the crowd to see.
But right now, the fighters had something bigger at hand. Omi's gamble in hoping to strike Deitric's throat and force a change in position hadn't paid out a large enough reward - the tribesman wasn't trying to put distance between them. They were going groundside.
A dull, heavy thud sounded when the duo hit the ground. Omi would have landed on his left side, while Deitric would be mounted ontop of him in a half-upright position, sitting just below his rib-cage with his right hand clamped and pushing down on Omi's right shoulder. If the pale-eyed tribesman had any hesitation in taking advantage of their ground position, he didn't show it in the least; his face grimly set and chillingly calm. No give, no offer of surrender.
THOCK THOCK THOCK THOCK--
Keeping Omi set down with his weight and the press of his right hand, the stoutly built, Khasmin man's arm was going to start pumping down hard, swift blows to the other man's head almost immediately. The arm cocked back and shot down, pumping away almost like a jack-hammer.
With Deitric's build, punches from the top position were brutally powerful, with enough force to bounce his competitor's skull right off the ground. And he didn't throw just one. The tribesman was throwing punches in bunches, and he was intent to rain down a serious dose of pain on his fellow finalist.
If everything went according to plan, Omi was going to be in one hell of a position - one that Deitric wasn't intent on letting him out of. Any man would be hard pressed to find an escape route while under a barrage of punches from someone of the champion's size. The black-haired brave didn't show any signs of slowing down, either - despite the fact he was still making a hollow "kaff" with each exhalation, he refused to let the burning pain that reached from his neck across his throat and shoulder stop him. All he needed to do to end the fight was punch, punch, punch.
Could Omi stay conscious long enough to manage an escape?
The dark-skinned warrior was doing everything in his power to make sure he couldn't.
Deitric had not been the prior year's champion for idle reasoning. He was powerful, methodical, fierce, and above all, capitalizing. When an opportunity presented itself, where other fighters may hesitate, the reigning champ would not; ripping apart the opponent rather than let a battle drag out, not allowing it to be a battle of endurance less absolutely necessary. Indeed, perhaps of all people at this competition, it was Omi, skull crashing into the sand-laden ground with bulging eyes and a silent gasp of pain, that possibly knew this best.
It was a difficult circumstance to describe to others; but picture if you will, having a larger attacker thunder in blows above you, in an unfavorable positioning no less. Now picture having a gun only you know of in your reach. A powerful, powerful firearm that could cause untold hells to your assailant. One you and you alone were versed in, one that with but a bit of instinct, a bit of anger, a bit of spite - you could reach for, and just blast the situation away.
That was how, for all of an instant, Barsait left. It was for just a second, as his skull screamed out-loud with pain his vocal cords could not, blood fortunately not spouting from the first blow though a bruising from hell sprout beneath his tufts of wild hair. Yes - for a second, he felt like embracing the hold Jocasta had upon him, and turning their sandy little floor-bound brawl into a fiery tomb for his opponent like only he could - to throw away honor in the face of victory. This was the reigning king of the ring after all, what did it matter how others viewed him so long as he won?
"**God DAMN iiiiIITttTTTTTTT~~!!!!!h*!***"
An almost inhuman growl bellowed from the downed fighter's throat. Filled with deep levels of disgust at himself for even giving the notion a thought; but more so.. hatred. Hatred unto the heavens, for the situation he was in.
You see, Deitric was indeed strong. Neither was Deitric a fool. Neither was Deitric slow, and neither was Deitric inflexible; round-about, the tribesman was a balanced success, ergo why he was the winner of this very same competition last year, and why he was favored to reach a high point during the current round.
..However. Omi Barsait, also a man who fought for the title of king in this very ring, too made his way towards the top for reasons more than just idle luck. Opportunism was his calling; ripping out of situations others would easily perish in, overclocking his brain 'til his skull burned if it meant reaching results, and most of all, that trademark desire of his that made even the coolest foes flinch if only once at its intensity, like a humanoid volcano ready to explode -
Second blow to his skull, second time the left side of his head helplessly crashed into the fortunately sandy ground below, giving just a tiny bit of leeway though so slight, it was at best a 2-3% damage reduction from getting blasted into regular compact dirt. He could feel blood.. minor? Major? He could feel it.. but he could also feel the rough path of that offending fist, traveling like lightning. All it took was an instant of picturing where the fist would likely be firing from given their positioning, and where the rest of Deitric's body would likely reside -
"*..Ya think.. I'm done~?*"
.. So as Omi's head thudded into the ground the third time, sight threatening to fade from him permanently whilst his mind spun into a vortex bordering consciousness and the world of dreams that churned over death.. again those eyes bolting open - this time, it wasn't from pain.
It was his desire to win roaring strong; something Deitric had plainly failed to extinguish. And it was all he needed; for Barsait, if an inch was given, it was your life he'd claim.
As his head struck the ground, it nudged along the offended skull space - dipping over just enough, Omi could scoop something into his mouth. Very quickly, the man's head turned to his harsh right, before that offending fist could complete a full raising/re-entry - And! A wave of sand would be spat upwards in a steady burst towards Deitric's eyes. Stuck together with his burning saliva, if it hit plush into either of the tribesman's eyes - irritation if not significant damage could be done to them. Indeed, the smaller fighter had practically gulped a wave of sand prior to firing it from his lips.
Capitalizing on this moment, Barsait watched with enclosing eyes, the next volley that would no doubt have been fired prior to the (likely unexpected) burst of sand to be crashing down, out of the right corner of his fittingly, right eye. Right before it made plush impact with that side of his skull, Barsait took advantage of the momentary confusion to lurch his chin down into his upper-chest as deep as possible, getting the jaw closer down.. the cheek was struck indeed, bashing the bone - but Barsait kept resolute, as..
(CHOMP!)
Quickly diving his head back up before the fist left his limited range, Omi tore into the middle fingertips exposed via Deitric's glove-wear. Showing those razor sharp teeth of his weren't just for show, the fighter crashed those pearly whites into the skin just above the finger nails with brutal force, like a bear trap seized the tribesman's fingertips - crunching into what felt like bone before the no doubt withdrawing fist would force Omi to release his enthused bite. Reverse-bite injuries were no laughing matter, especially when the factor with teeth was going it on purpose with pressure applied. Even with the minor amount of finger-flesh exposed, the damage a row of human teeth could inflict to the underlying nerves and bone, much less the bacteria the common human mouth holds especially with all that sand laced into the mixture..
And all at the same time, Omi's entire waist was rocking back and fourth beneath the superior wait of Deitric wildly - like the larger man were "sitting" upon an animal trying to rip itself lose, back and fourth verbatim, again and again and again relentlessly whilst his entire legs bended and straightened, churned in opposite directions then crashed in symmetry to the left or right; Barsait's left hand ripping itself out from beneath his own body to try and slide its fingertips into a weak but appreciated face-guard;
Perhaps, if Deitric could indeed see at any time Barsait's face was visible, he would notice.. those intense eyes - screaming like a wave of flames ready to burn the larger fighter apart if he relented even an instant. Omi, you see, very much desired to escape.
And the pale-skinned warrior was doing everything in his power to make sure he did.
The crowd rose up as one in a oceanic wave of people, shouting and crying out until their voices went hoarse. The fight had been the most-discussed pairing of the first round, possibly of the entire tournament. Two former finalists, renewing their former restrictions to fight each other. The crowd didn't know who was at a loss, but to see one of them, either of them come out into a dominant position was reason enough to cheer.
In the sand, Deitric's left fist had been pounding away at Omi. To a spectator, it was simply what a fighter did. To an observant fighter, it was telling just how much the tribesman respected Omi's abilities in combat that he would go to such lengths to force his enemy into a disadvantaged position, the way he took abrupt gambles and applied them with such straightforward aggression. In other fights, the warrior had rarely ever came out swinging with so much force and raw aggression. The only comparable time was his fight with the Heaven or Hell Eliminator, Gamma, who had been hired with the specific intent of ruining Deitric's fighting ability prior to one of the rounds.
It was because of that knowledge of Omi's prowess that his opponent had taken such measures to disadvantage him by putting him on the ground. In many ways, the two men were markedly similar - they strove for some measure of 'balance', cleverness, and a liberal application of "impromptu planning." But they were still two very different animals; Deitric opted for a greater focus on strength and power, while Omi opted for speed and agility. It was that difference that made Omi dangerous for Deitric, and Deitric a dangerous foe for Omi.
Each time he drew back to punch, the chestnut skinned warrior could feel a tingling just beneath his skin, a prickling sensation biting at the bit to be free. In his position, he could do to Omi what he did to Gamma - force out all his energy into one or two blows, and crack he man's skull like an egg. It could end the match in one blow--
--but that, in the tribesman's eyes, would be cheating. Foul play. A man was only as good as his word, and he had proffered the agreement in the first place. The only way he would break that, would be if Omi did so first; and both the men held their personal pride as respectable fighters in too high a regard to do such a thing.
Fist cocked to throw another blow, he watched Omi's head rebound off the ground like a basketball before..
"BLEH"
..The prone man spat something out of his mouth at the tribesman's face. The warrior's head turned to the left in a split-second recoil of surprise and his eyes instinctively squinted shut. There was no way to dodge the sand, something he hadn't even seen coming. The much splattered over the right side of his face like wet cement. Some sloughed off, but enough remained caked on his face that his right eye was forced to stay closed for now. Opening it would only irritate it, so for now he was effectively going for the Pirate look.
CHOMP
"Hrrrrgh!"
And then Omi's teeth sank into the top of the index, middle, and ring fingers of the Khasmin man's right hand. The bottom and literal tips of his fingers were safe as he grasped the man's shoulders, but the smaller fighter's top row of teeth did a good job of outright shredding the sensitive flesh to ribbons and probably doing some heavy damage to the nails ontop of it.
Deitric was a tough man, all things considered. Since their previous bout, he had about dozen new scars, one especially noticeable just under his left eye where a chunk of stone had been used to try and gouge out his eye. But not even he could just blank out that sort of pain. It wasn't even worth trying - the fingertips were too sensitive, and the pain was too much. He couldn't ignore it, but pain was also good for something, as Omi was showing: it was an excellent fuel for a fighter. Pain got the adrenaline flooding into one's bloodstream, get the blood rushing into your ears and make a man see red.
Spitting sand and trying to shred up his fingers - Omi was really pushing the brave's buttons. At least by biting his fingers, the tricky fighter had given Deitric a clear idea of where his head was so he could get a taste of the man's immediate reaction to "where-did-the-tops-of-my-fingers-go?" and "make-it-stop-NOW."
He had paused at the sand at instinct, but the first instincts when it came to pain were fight, or flight. For the champion, the choice was obvious: He was going to fight whatever hurt him and try to defend himself as best as possible.
After Omi bit into Deitric's fingers - and maybe sought to dig a little deeper while his arm protected him - he was going to feel the larger man's left fist come crashing down again, this time punching with the intent to literally force Omi's toothed grip from his fingers. It'd probably damage the fingers even more, but he wasn't thinking about that; the brave's only thoughts were that he needed to get his fingers out from under Barsait's teeth.
Luckily, he didn't need to see Omi (though, from his vantage point, his left eye could still see a little) to punch him in the head, especially when the pain was painting a pretty good idea of where his head would be. If the man beneath him managed to block, hopefully Deitric's position and power would be enough to force the guard to crash into the man's head and still have the desired effect.
THOCK
Assuming that worked (or even if it didn't), the defending champion would do the only thing he could. And that was continue to sling power punches down at Omi as best he could. He was aiming for a KO (and get him away from the shredded hand, if he was still gnawing away at it) more than ever now.
ANGER
Guard? What he could see of the guard, he didn't give a damn about it. His left arm was working double time, driving down meteoric punches as fast and hard as he could manage. Omi bucked and twisted beneath him to try and escape but as long as the fighter's weight was settled ontop of him, he wasn't going anywhere. Let the man guard - or not - if he so desired - Deitric Jocasta was going to keep giving out punches like they were going out of style, aiming to hit his opponent anywhere he could, be it the face, skull, or even the top of the neck.
MISERY
Out the door, he had outright gone to town - these weren't punches in bunches, they were bunches of punches that were bunched with other bunches of punches. The crowd gave an uproarious cry as the jack-hammer of an arm tried to crash down again and again. Omi had torn away more than just first blood (and quite a bit of Deitric's middle finger, moreso than the others), but could he survive the continued, roaring barrage of punches his head was being put under? The man was tough, but steel shod knuckles were tough too, and Omi Barsait's opponent wasn't going to give him an inch of give or quarter.
YOU'LL SUFFER UNTO ME
Omi's right eye began to swell up, and if much more was applied - as Deitric surely intended - well, that would be unpleasant. Not to mention the numerous cuts those crashing blows opened up along the fighter's face; none right above the brow yet, thank god, but if much more was inflicted, well.. Barsait knew how dire the situation could be.
However, as the crowd roared in throngs, Barsait again took a shot to the right cheek-bone, feeling a bit audibly 'crack' as his head dipped against the sandy ground.. but, when that screaming left began to retract, it would find something inhibiting.
Barsait's left.
It hadn't been a ploy for a weak face-guard at all. Bent across his chest in an awkward positioning, those fingertips embraced the offending hand like talons; bending at the wrist to grind the pauldron's 'fangs' into the larger fighter's gauntlets for extra security, and like hell, pulling downward with all of Barsait's might towards his upper-mid chest. Even if Deitric pulled on that arm with such force, it would rip the strategic fighter's arm out of its socket - it was clear by just how much force was being applied to the grip, or how much he was pulling on Jocasta's left arm was not going to be allowed to get into the proper positioning for another strike as is. Not without one hell of a fight.
Banking on the fact Deitric might look with his good eye instinctively just out of sheer curiosity as to what was stopping his hand, Omi again dipped his face against the sand, practically inhaling the sickening substance - before turning and just spitting it all up towards mid-center of the dominant fighter's face, caking more and more of the nasty goo onto the brave's face. Then, dragging that fist in place like his life depended on it (and it very may well have), Barsait's teeth, sand gritted over them, glinted just momentarily.. before he grinded them straight into the offending fighter's -other- hand's exposed flesh, this time keeping the hand in place so his teeth could just rip on through the flesh and clash into the bone deep as the bite warranted.
You see, Barsait was as usual, playing a deadly gamble. Deitric had Omi well secured; such was the advantage of being on top with more weight. However, the way Omi continued to thrash about in that textured ground they were residing on, if Jocasta let another limb go free to try and even out the situation or free his restrained appendage.. well, it could lead to the monumental advantage the brave had being ripped right out from under him.
And giving Omi Barsait an opportunity to turn the tides was much like giving a pyromaniac a match in front of an oilfield. Risky and unpleasant.
Refusing to give in to the dulling ache that screamed across his battered skull, the dark-clad fighter twisted and turned even more violently than before; teeth chomping into Deitric's fingers while trying to pull them upward a bit through the tipless portion of the gauntlets just so he could bite into more.
One thing was for sure: if Jocasta didn't make a move soon, mere scars would be a small issue compared to what he would be facing- yet, the question was..
Would Deitric Jocasta make the correct move? Or would he play right into the thrashing, younger fighter's hands?
Omi might have stopped the barrage, but by grabbing and pulling on Deitric's arm, the man was entering a contest of strength. He might have held an initial advantage, but it wouldn't take long at all for the larger, more muscular of the two fighters to start forcefully retracting his arm, while curling his fingers around part of the pauldron to keep the arm from escaping his own pull. He wasn't pulling back to escape and punch, however - in the long run, he'd be putting Omi's arm across his own throat, and his own left hand out of biting range. But that would come later.
While that had stopped his relentless onslaught of punches, there was something else coming. Omi had turned his face upwards as if he were about to give the long-haired warrior a stare-down; something no fighter in their right mind would have done without reason in Omi's position, given the fact that the brave's right hand could still punch if needed. That tripped a few alarms in the returning champion's mind.
Fool me once, shame on you.
Fool me twice, shame on me.
The Khasmin tribesman wasn't about to get another face full of sand - at least not in his usable eye. When Omi turned his face up, the warrior sucked his head back to his neck and turned it aside so that the sand caught the right side of his face and dirtied his hair. That didn't matter; the right side of his face was already stuck with at least a thin coating of sand, more of the grainy stuff wasn't much of a bother.
While Barsait was spitting sand, thrashing to and fro, and trying to snap his teeth into one of his opponent's hands, Deitric wasn't sitting idly by. While the smaller man couldn't do a great deal in terms of movement, pinned under the stoutly built brave as he was. Not without help, anyways.
And he would get more help than he wanted.
While he was going for the bite, Deitric's semi-mangled hand turned to hook 'round the triceps of Omi's right arm and give a sudden yank to the right, leaning to his left and then to his right subtly to give a surprising amount of force to the push. He hadn't chosen to push because Omi was trying to bite him again; but because he was pushing in concert with Omi's thrashing so that the man would actually overturn and be forced onto his stomach. The idea was to catch him by surprise. If the maneuver didn't, no harm done; both of Omi's arms were trapped in one manner or another: The right trapped directly beneath his opponent, and the left in a mutual tug of war with Deitric's own left.
The man was writhing, throwing himself to the left and right trying to get free from Deitric's weight. When he threw himself to his [Omi's] left, Deitric just yanked and pushed with his right arm, essentially turning Omi's jerking attempts of escape into a roll that put the smaller fighter onto his stomach, with the leather and denim garbed champion sitting somewhere around the upper-middle of his back.
What's more was, with their mutual hold on each other's arms (or, at least, Deitric's grip on the pauldron of the left arm), Omi's left would now be trapped, crossed over his neck and stuck beneath his chin and against his throat. In that position, the brave would apply a steady pull to arm he held while his bloodied right simultaneously slammed down onto the back of crafty Barsait's head to smash his face into the ground before locking his fingers into the man's hair. With any luck, that would help with the whole "choking into submission" idea.
If that occurred, Omi was arguably in a worse position than before - his face being forcefully pressed into the sand to help cut off his breathing, while having his left arm was being used to apply pressure to his neck and effectively choke him out. Deitric's sly opponent might have been able to breathe a minute amount, but it couldn't take too long before he succumbed to the lack of oxygen and blacked out. Especially with the beating his head had taken barely a moment prior.
How would Omi Barsait escape his opponent's machinations? Could he? The sands of time were slipping away, and it looked like the man's number might finally be up for this round.
"G...good.."
Even mentally, that was about the extent of vocalization Omi could reach. Deitric had soundly taken control of this bout; it was a fact the smaller man could acknowledge solely because of whom it was that did it. If his battered skull didn't scream for his body to go into 'sleep', assuredly, his own arm grinding into that throat of his was of no help; hurried exhales & inhales scattering sand beneath him and frantically bringing in oxygen.
It was truly unfortunate. In a different world, Barsait could have capitalized on this scenario by projecting a 'serpent' out of the trails of blood lining the back of his head, directly into the fighter above's face - and ignited it point-blank to regain the initiative.. but, that was not this world. Here, they fought on wit & brawn alone - and while it was debatable on the former, the latter was assuredly the challenger's loss.
In a match of strikes, dancing, maneuvering, reaching the weak-point of an opponent.. this man, breaths slowly losing their quality, was no novice. However, in terms of grappling, submissions.. indeed, Omi was more a man of impact than of restraint, even to a deadly degree- and here, coupled with the reigning champ's vitality and superior size, he would pay for this in spades.
A lesser man might blame this on luck, or curse their opponent for this unsavory act and that - but to Omi Barsait, the realization was clear. It had been a fight between two warriors who both went for the metaphorical blows that could down the mightiest in moments; a fight that could end in mere seconds. Such was the gravity of it all- and unfortunately, he had fallen on the losing side of it. His skull was ready to just lay on the ground below, his lungs were cursing him for the predicament Omi now found himself in, and there wasn't a chance Deitric would be allowing the pinned fighter any room to escape. It was a commendable road to victory; it was of course unfortunate that it was pinned against the man struggling against his own limb for air, but.. such was the nature of the beast.
***However*.**
He was quite sly indeed. And accepting defeat even as it was ground into his face, never really suited his personality.
Left hand releasing Deitric's own left, it was true that Deitric was stronger, had a longer reach, had more weight - but Barsait was indeed nimbler, more agile, more dexterous by intention. Left thumb flicking a mechanism along the ridge of the pauldron, the left gauntlet & pauldron 'de-synced" - so all Deitric was really pulling on so tightly.. was a pauldron. Hand slipping loose of it, driving home the concept of "sleight of hand" quite literally - Omi stubbornly forced his skull and Jocasta's right hand upward just enough, that left arm dove under like a knife-blade, arm uncomfortable burning across the exterior of his chain mesh -
Just as simultaneously, the right hand did the same, thumb screaming in agony beneath the heavy-set fighter's weight as it found itself a tiny bit of leeway via the pauldron exterior.
"My apologies.. not finished." Both of those irritated eyes regained color.
Yes. He had freed his arms. In a bastardy manner, perhaps, but that too was the nature of the beast.
More importantly, he had a center of balance and a rough concept of just how Deitric was postured on him painfully engraved into his body thanks in no small part to Jocasta's painful shuffle with him. You see, it was true again that Barsait's reach was shorter.. but, they were rather close to one another needless to say - and Omi's flexibility was a honed attribute, too. Case in point, as those arms shot upward with no eyesight to guide them, familiar fingertips of those gauntlets screaming in a reverse-pincer attack towards where he, judging by the fortunate shadow ahead of his eyes even as the man's weary face ground into the sand below - assumed was Deitric's neck.
Now, here was a tricky situation. Would Deitric continue mashing Omi's face against the ground with that right hand? Sure, it could still put the wounded fighter out in due time, but it was a risky gamble now that there wasn't a supporting limb assisting the matter; the fighter sucking air out of the corner of his lips like a sweet treat. Was Deitric going to drop the pauldron in and adjust his own left arm in time to stop the left arm- could he stop both arms simultaneously, at what was assuredly and perhaps ironically, breakneck speed? If Deitric had blows that could break rock, well, Omi had strikes that could maneuver around rubble, after all.
What was the intention?
Manual strangulation, manual constriction of the air passages, manual restriction of the blood-flow to the opponent's brain to encourage the deadly roots sprouted from the earlier unsuccessful strike at Jocasta's neck. He was going to water the seed he planted earlier; the carotid arteries, the jugular vein, the laryngopharynx, the larynx, or the trachea - his fingertips were going to go on a pressing frenzy, trying to constrict every bit of Deitric's throat they could reach; nail to dig in like scalpels with the same level of precision, or as much as could be applied given Barsait couldn't directly supervise their "incisions."
What kind of fate did this lead towards, as Barsait scavenged every bit of his characteristic fury to maintain consciousness just a while longer; what was the end of the road to look like?
!
When Omi released his left hand, the tribesman knew something was going to happen. Most men would have given beneath the constant barrage of pain in various forms that the man had been subjected to, but it was more evident than ever to Deitric that one could never give enough credit to Barsait's ability to find new avenues of attack. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the larger warrior must have admired that trait, one that was rarely so keen in a fighter as it was in his opponent.
It wasn't quite the right time to be giving the man any complements on his grit and determination, though. As though he had any to give; he would have been more likely to curse the man's ingenuity in the midst of a fight, given it was being set against him.
By virtue of being limber and a downright tricky sort of man, Omi had managed to not get one arm free, but two. The dark-skinned brave's immediate thought was that the other finalist was going to try and use his arms to push himself up, and so he pushed down **hard on Omi's head to grind it back into the dirt, locking it in place.
Instead, Barsait made a sudden attack, though it was only half-successful. With Deitric's right arm extended out to push down Omi's head, it was right in the way of the oncoming attack - the right arm batted into his own right and reached futilely, unable to reach his neck. Because Deitric's other arm had been slung back when it was suddenly released (holding onto the pauldron, no less!), Omi's left swooped up, aiming to get some sort of a hold right on his neck.
The tribesman could tuck his chin and little else - the man's fingernails dug rivulets of crimson across the side of his neck and his jawline painfully, tearing away skin. Omi could no doubt feel and get a grasp for the carotid from that position, but little else. That was enough to constrict bloodflow though, and that was bad. Assuming he had long enough to hold on, he could seriously weaken the tribesman.
Now though, with his left free, the way to victory was open; clear as day to the champion. The opposing finalist might have gotten a good grasp to begin chipping down the growling warrior, but he wasn't going to have enough time to fully utilize it.
Deitric promptly dropped the pauldron, arm already half-cocked, and loosed a quick punch like a bat out of hell. It was aimed to go over the arm that was choking him; he wasn't aiming to knock it away. At the very last split-second before impact, Omi might feel it brush against his own arm. With his head turned down and forced into place, he wouldn't see it coming.
Then, with any luck, it was going to be lights out for Omi Barsait.
Why?
Because the punch was aiming just below the base of the skull: the brain stem, which controlled one's ability to keep conscious. It was one of the most glaring weak points of human anatomy, and even if he didn't know all the complex names, he knew a good target when it was put in front of him. And that was one hell of a good target; it was a key striking point in ambushes to quickly take down a foe that needed to be kept alive.
Right below the skull, where the neck connected into it, where the brain stem lead to the spinal cord. Even if Omi realized what was coming and aimed to twist his head, it wouldn't help - the neck couldn't move in the same fashion, and Deitric's fist was big enough to cover the whole width of it the intended target.
With any luck (and a dash of quick thinking on the champion's part), Omi wouldn't know what hit him until the medics woke him up.**
(Crash!)
Eyes bulging wide open, the grip on Deitric lessened instantaneously.. until it was hardly a grip at all; fingertips looking to desperately grasp upward at something they could not. All at once, the struggle Barsait's body gave off would cease to be. A few more stubborn spasms, as that left hand fell short of the champion's throat - obviously trying its damnedest to reach its intended target even if it could not..
"I.. came close-" was the only words the downed fighter could mutter, before his skull finally slammed into the dust & sand; eyes blank and mouth wide-open. Hand making a single last-ditch effort at moving upward, it too followed suit and crashed downward. The entire fighter's body became lax, unmoving.. without retaliation. Breath shallow and body unresponsive, consciousness faded and spirit put into sleep.
Omi Barsait could not even spectate his defeat, only that he had been in fact.. defeated. The bout was, regretfully, over in the first round of the Gaian Tenkaichi Budoukai III.
For now.
[FIGHT FINISH]
Deitric felt his fist connect soundly with its target, and the pressure on the left side of his neck gave out nearly as quickly as it had been applied. The brave could tell that his blow had done its job; Omi had gone limp, but was still showing signs of life.
Untangling his half-mangled fingers from the man's hair, the tribesman stood slowly. The surging adrenaline of battle and need to win had helped numb the pain, but now that his system was cleaning it all out and his mind was clearing away thoughts of battle, the wounds became immediate and painful as if he felt them for the first time all over again. Three of his fingers were throbbing with searing pain and his hand was covered in dark bloodstains. The sand and grit that had worked its way into the wounds didn't help, either.
Blood ran down in slow, dribbling rivulets from his neck on both sides, and the skin on the right side of his neck looked like it was darkening into a bruise, but otherwise he the warrior seemed in notably decent shape; three fingers needing immediate medical attention notwithstanding.
When the crowd saw the reigning champion rise and his opponent stay on the ground, they seemed to rise up as one and loose an earth-shaking roar of cries, the meaning lost in the rumbling sound of the thousands of voices rolling together into one massive, unintelligible sound.
Deitric could do little else but stand and listen though, while waiting for the medical crew that would eventually see to getting Omi off the field, and hopefully begin the process of patching up his hand and neck. Until then, he was content to stand and wait.
[Fight over]