Graveyard

Stage1: Grand Cathedral

Graveyard

The graveyard fight is always one of darkness and fear. Well, always until now. This year the fight was scheduled in broad daylight on a beautiful day. The sun is shining and it's time to put a team underground.

This year's graveyard is more along the lines of a park than a graveyard proper, illustrating the ever growing lack of spaces to build. Winding gravel paths are accented by stone benches, where one may pay their respects to their deceased loved ones. In the distance, the path leads to the cathedral itself.

Terrain

General - Grassy field, gravel paths, sparse trees, crisp January day.

Weapons - Tombstones, flowers.

Bonus Effects - The bell from the cathedral can be distractingly loud.

"It does seem movie-ish doesn't it?"

Reinhart appeared from out of nowhere as was his entry style and was standing next to Damion with a cigarette comfortably resting between his lips. Dressed in his usual worn in gray jacket and pants, star stamped brown tee, and black boots he exhaled a little smoke before stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. Sometimes he swore the cancer stick was more for show than the actual nicotine fix most smokers lit these things up for. He convinced himself it was just a force of habit since he actually hated smelling like an ashtray.

Two members accounted for, Reinhart yawned into his hand then shoved it back in his pocket.

He said to himself more than Damion as he suddenly felt like going back to sleep, graveyard or not.

"The rest of us want to fight, too," Deitric remarked from behind Duc, one hand pulling the wrought iron gate to the cemetery back open after it had been closed. With the same hand, the tribesman pulled the screeching portal closed and strolled forward to his teammate's side.

Up close, what had been blotches of odd color from far away became obvious - the man's face was marked with stripes and streaks of black, white, and blue. War-paint. A long blue strip went directly over his eyes, with three white finger-daubed circles in a triangle formation on his left cheek and the same number of vertical black lines running smoothly down the right. Up close, it gave the stoic Khasmin man an almost demonic look, turning his proud features savage.

"It seems neither of us have all our team present. That's unfortunate," he mused quietly. Beyond the war-paint, he seemed to have a poker face in spades. He didn't seem agitated in the least - not even excited to be in the tournament.

And here Owen expected it to be a delightfully horrible day to go with the delightfully horrible battlefield. He imagined a gruesome bloodbath of a sea of the fallen in the overcast, stormy sky. But now. Here he was treated to happy little cemetery, apparently designed by the writers of bambi. Not to mention that the weather was completely unbearable.

And here he was, putting all this effort to arrive early. The Death Knight would have none of it. It was an outrage.

The Darth Vizzle Wrote:

"It seems neither of us have all our team present. That's unfortunate--"

On cue, the a pale, corpse-like hand burst violently from the confides of a nearby grave. Laying its palm firmly on the desecrated soil, the corpse pushed itself out of the ground with surprising gusto, completely destroying the daisies and tulips growing nearby. A shrill moan was all the greeting the formally deceased warrior would present them with.

"Ugggggggggggnnnnnnhhh."

The man wasn't buried in what one would normally expect a dead man to be sporting (besides nothing), being left in a plain black leather jacket, pants, and gloves: all of which were sewn with chain mail. He was even left with plated boot equipment and a spear! Of course, it was all now terribly, terribly filthy. The ensemble came complete with maggots and earthworms that were now crawling around his unnaturally black hair.

"Urrrrgggghhh."

The shambling, putrid mass of flesh staggered towards the Captain of Random Select. Judging by the disgusting FIGHTER sported on the corpse, the monstrosity was clearly a combatant. The corpse placed its hand on Reinhart's right shoulder and glared at him, as though to protest, before kneeling over and coughing up the grotesque contents of his body: mud, partially digested meat, and maggots.

~BAM!

And so Duc slammed his fist into Owen's face, forcing his bent body to move in the other direction. Staggering back a few feet, the Death Knight quickly regained his balance. His left eye blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the stars brought on by the underhanded attack.

"Hmm... so that's how it is."

Slamming his recoiled left foot down hard, his immediately stepped in with his right to return a straight to his opponent's abdomen.

"Very well."

There was a hint of a smile on Owen's face as he dropped his farce. While he might technically be among the ranks of the undead, he was certainly no zombie.

[1]

The elbow followed through successfully, slamming into Owen's head. Allowing his body to fall back with the force, his upper torso pivoted down and to the right with seemingly bad posture. It at least made the hammer strike a glancing blow.

Without any hesitation, the Death Knight came back in hard with a right uppercut aimed at the left side of duck's face.

[2]

A simultaneous exchange. Owen smashed his opponents chin, where as Duc returned fire with a blow strong enough to crush a man's windpipe. Which, understandably, could present problem.

Duc would probably notice a definite lack of resistance, excluding the chain mail, against his attacks. That was because the Death Knight, in fact, had no bones or vital organs.

With that, the Death Knight would release mana from his body in a single burst.

Quote: -Lunar Push: Using his affinity for the moon, Owen is able to create a mobile, hemispherical energy field that prevents the entrance of most types of living creatures (barring other creatures with a particularly strong affinity towards the moon, which should be few and far between). This ability may also be used to push-back people in close proximity to him. This ability doesn't affect undead or other unliving beings. He may not activate any other ability while this is in effect. The maximum range for this ability is ten feet.

The field of lunar energy expanded outward, only reaching a radius of about five feet; after all, he didn't want to get carded for throwing the other combatants. The expanding force of the barrier could easily toss the man a good ten feet-- hopefully into a tombstone or something.

Owen coughed stuff out of him again. This time it wasn't maggots, rather what looked to be black mist. In reality, his 'blood' was actually a terrible poison, capable of incapacitating even the strongest of foes. Fortunately for everyone involved, however, this miasma only affected those of draconic origin.

Hastily drawing his spear, he prepared to intercept an attack from his opponent; no doubt Duc would try to retaliate as he was hacking up blood. At the current rate of things, the round wouldn't last much longer at all... which was just the way Owen liked it.

[3]

Deitric watched the fight with mild interest. He had a sound knowledge of both men's weapons - the spear, and the tomahawk and knife combination were both in the tribesman's repertoire; he'd used both in the last Heaven or Hell tournament off and on.

He leaned up against one of the nearby obelisks detailing someone's eulogy. His own people didn't do much in the ways of burial, preferring cremation. The Khasmin man didn't really know he was probably defiling some poor soul's resting place by standing and stamping his boots all about and using the man's standing monument as his leaning post. Then again, if he was dead, who's to say he'd care?

I wonder how long it'll last.. and where our fourth has gone..

Owen readied himself for a charge while holding a spear; if Duc had been watching the fight he would have laughed. There was nothing in all his years of fighting that could possibly convince him charging against a long pointy stick was a good idea.

Duc eyed the spear, trying to gauge its length, as he held knife and axe in hand. Nothing in Owen's appearance fazed the aged spaceman.

Adopting a stance that would present the smallest cross section, left shoulder forward, Duc guarded himself. There was no way he would rush in to attack and like it or not with Owen having the reach advantage he was going to need to fight on the defensive.

-5-

Thudding filled Roderick's ears as he ran full-kilter towards his Team's assigned 'Arena,' followed by a large dirty nimbus kicked up by his always bare feet. The FIGHTER around his arm on his jiggled slightly, which he found to be slightly annoying. If only the thing hadn't been necessary; Roderick didn't enjoy unfamiliar objects being connected to his body. There was always the chance that it could throw him off his game.

The Cathedral came into view on his right and he broke into a sprint. He wasn't tired, he had only began running when he had realized that he had most likely crossed the line of being fashionably late into the area of looking like a total idiot. Roderick hopped the low fence into the Graveyard and spotted his Team Captain sitting atop a Tombstone nearby, as well as his other Teammate already engrossed in a fight. He observed keenly as he approached Reinhart, speaking up once he was at his side.

Roderick was intent on the fight he was watching, so the easily dodge-able smack hit him sharply in the back on the skull. It stung a bit, but what was more annoying was watching one of his more wobbly teeth fly out of his mouth and hit the ground. He had 'lost' it in a fight, and with no money for dental but a head full of self-consciousness he had stuck it back into his gumline with a bit of chewing-gum. The smack wasn't hard, but it had been hard enough for that.

YOU JERK!

My mouth is enough of a damn checker-board as it is...

He didn't notice Reinhart nodding for him to view the fight, as his attention had already returned to doing so. He diverted his attention between the match, and trying to stick the now dirty tooth back into his gums. It had worked the last time, until now that is.

Noting Duc's defensive stance, the Death Knight merely stepped in with a simple thrust, one that would fall a bit short in terms of power; it was a feint.

Assuming his opponent fell for it and attempted to block accordingly, he would immediately withdraw his spear and, in rapid succession, thrust the weapon down into Duc's lower leg. If the thrust sunk in, Owen should flip the spear to its side, rotating the spear head in an attempt to do more damage to his foes leg.

If his opponent caught on to the feint, he would immediately step in with a very real thrust at his opponent's midsection.

[5]

Duc evaded the feint completely, grappling. Owen, finding his weapon sieze, immediately put up resistance. He started to pull away for a brief moment... before letting it go altogether.

The Death Knight dropped the spear, perhaps confusing his opponent and throwing Duc off balance.

From here, he would normally engage his opponent in close combat, but he seems to have misplaced his rapier-- probably leaving it underground. It didn't matter though, seeing as the Death Knight could improvise. Tilting his left side forward, he took a long step back to the left. As the tomahawk whirled past, narrowly missing the undead shade, Owen threw his left arm forward towards his opponent.

Quote: -Chaos Bolt: To a normal combatant, this is merely a bolt of chaos energy, having properties comparable to that of a strong electrical discharge. However, due to the spell's effects, the Chaos Bolt actively seeks out a closed circuit to wreck havoc across. For example: the leylines of a magical weapon, the circulatory system in a human, etc. This renders certain forms of magical absorption useless, rather allowing the bolt open access to their bodies. The bolt itself doesn't usually do enough damage to critically wound a target, rather tries to spread the damage across the entire body.

A bolt of dark, purple energy discharged from his fingertips, speeding suddenly towards his opponent. Hopefully, this maneuver would prove successful and weaken his opponent's body as a whole. While it may not incapacitate any one part of his opponent's body, it would prove to be a significant advantage.

And he'd need it now that he had disarmed himself.

[6]

The spear fell, useless and abandoned, to the ground. Duc had no need for it and seemingly neither did Owen; and to anyone watching the fight they could remark how useless the tomahawk had been too when it missed.

Only thing left to do was rush in and meet his opponent head on once more.

Then a bolt of purple energy hit him, his step didn't falter, but the attack swept through his body and made his nerves scream in pain before Duc's body had the chance to shut down the pain receptors. A numbness spread through and engulfed his body as he pushed onwards.

The distance between Owen and Duc shouldn't have been more then six feet when he was hit by the Chaos Bolt.

As the distance closed Duc reached behind his back to where his baton was stored. His hand pulled it free and swung it low, sweeping it in an arc to strike Owen's right thigh. The momentum of the swing extending the weapon to it's full twenty six inches.

-7-

The baton hit, sooner then Duc would have liked as Owen leapt at him. It was an attempt to bare him to the ground; but Owen would find that despite his lunge he wouldn't have the force required to knock Duc down.

Regardless two bodies collided and both of them saw a cessation in their forward momentum.

Duc was stopped dead in his tracks as Owen attempted to grapple him and a leg was forced back to lower his centre of gravity.

As the two were pressed against one another Duc had the presence of mind to raise his left arm and with a short jerk of his wrist to bash the baton against Owen's head.

His knife though didn't have an opening in which to attack and so that hand was put to use in trying to create enough space to allow Duc to fight more effectively.

-8-

The blow landed and seemed to have way more of an effect then Duc expected as Owen fell forward. Surprise though was a killer on the battlefield and Duc had long learned to except things as they come take the most effective path he could rapidly think of.

The most effective path he saw was to drop the baton and grab Owen's head by his hair; it was slick and seemed comprised of oil which forced Duc to ball and tangle his fingers in it. By now the Death Knight's palms had come to rest on Duc's thighs.

Owen opened his mouth to begin uttering some words as Duc slashed his knife across his foes neck.

Then all the sensation in his legs went away, it was as though they had fallen asleep and he wasn't sure if he was standing right or not. It was a moment later when the muscles gave way and he fell to the ground, landing on his knees and sink back.

In the process he would land rudely on his left ankle.

-9-

His lower body might not have worked; but Duc still had his hand tangled in Owen's hair and a good knife at hand. Owen felled, and Duc must have scalped him for the hair fell away too.

Maddened by the loss of his grip Duc tossed away the hair and reached down at Owen as he began to roll. Using all his upper body strength to force him face down into the ground he would attempt to fall upon the man and latch a hand on the collar of the Death Knight.

Regardless of whether or not he got a hold of Owen though he would begin to wail on him with a flurry of strikes from his right fist.

Meanwhile Duc's body was jump starting his lower legs. Forcing the old blood out and new in, carrying vital oxygen as the millions of neurons began to light up.

It wasn't much; but Duc was beginning to feel a tingling sensation.

-10-

Owen grabbed his left wrist; which was all right with Duc, he was just using that hand to provide some leverage in his beating of the guy. The fist landed a few times, then Owen grabbed at it and managed to catch his wrist but not before getting his hand cut up and stabbed by the short hooked knife in that hand.

Then pain flooded into his hands and forearms as that purple energy reared its head once more and burned into Duc's body. The skin began to blacken and dry, it would just be a matter of seconds before it started to break and flake off, leaving raw muscles weeping blood. Already Duc's body had shut down the pain receptors as they started to die in their hundreds of thousands.

Duc had to do something; but he was limited greatly.

So he did the only thing he could have possibly done. Using his grip still on Owen's jacket collar he pulled himself closer with a yank and smashed his head downwards to collide the top of his head against Owen's face.

Once the downward motion of his head had ended he yanked his right arm violently away from Owen's grip. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to save his left but he had to at least keep one hand in working order.

Meanwhile the tingling in Duc's legs started to turn into pain as sensation began to come back.

-11-

Rearing up from his attack Duc sat on his legs, still gripping Owen's collar. The skin of his left hand was cracking as the muscles tensed, blood seeped from his hand and bled on the Death Knight.

Owen's first punch reached him before he was fully upright; but the follow up of the left would miss as Duc leaned backwards.

Coming back into the fight Duc lashed out with his right hand, punching under the Owen's extended left arm to strike at the Death Knight's jaw.

Meanwhile Duc's legs were feeling all prickly and he could feel that he had broken his ankle as all sensation had returned.

-12-

The reason the punch didn't have much force was because Owen did not have the room to create as much force as he would had the two of them been standing and been at arms reach.

But Owen was concentrating on his defences when he brought his trick from earlier, the Lunar Push, and set his arms up to block another attack. This turtling was getting annoying and Duc wanted to do something about it.

As the field expanded it forced Duc upwards and raised him to his feet, and though they were weak beneath them he began to stand. With his left hand already holding Owen's collar he grabbed his opponents groin with his right hand, found nothing there, and with the support of the field heaved upwards.

With all his strength Duc lifted Owen and tossed him.

It wouldn't be a long throw and the expanding field would end up throwing Duc further then he threw Owen.

The burned skin of his hands stayed with the Death Knight and blood sprayed in the violence of the act as Duc flew through the air and landed some fifteen feet away, crashing into a tombstone and smashing a collar bone in the process.

-13-

His legs were still weak and Duc wasn't sure if he'd even be able to stand straight if given the chance. His ankle would more then likely give if he stood up and both shook as spasms ran up and down each leg as strength slowly returned to them. Had it not been for the initial aid of the Lunar Push Duc could never have done what he did.

Propped up against the tombstone he examined his hands. His left hand past the wrist up raw and bleeding profusely. Three of his fingers were missing completely while all the tips were gone, only the thumb was still there but enough flesh had burned away that bone showed.

His right hand was pretty much the same affair, though the knife was still gripped through the loop by the remains of his index finger.

Duc really needed to get them bandaged so the blood could clot and the healing could begin. At least he didn't need a new arm or even a whole body like he had needed other times.

Glancing at his opponent he grinned.

"I got you ********."

Duc was sure that he had won this bought, even if it had hurt him.

-14-

Duc slammed his left hand down on his knee and laughed. He laughed through the pain and he laughed through the potential for any shame. His opponent stood, he was going to stand as well and even if it cost him his foot.

"Tell the sun dies I shall fight."

Bringing his right leg under himself he stood slowly, every so slowly as to hide his weakness. To hide the wobbling. He locked his knees and spread his arms before him as though he invited another round of fighting.

"Conflict is the only world I know."

And as if to prove that he could continue he took a step forward with his left leg. It bent oddly and there was the sickening sound of bone breaking; but Duc managed to stay up right and drag his right up to bare most of his weight.

-15-

Duc guarded, raising his left arm to shield his body and the raw and bloody flesh was hit by the purple bolt of energy. The muscles throbbed and pulsed as the attack caused neurons to randomly fire before all the muscles locked and the arm went rigid.

Only one arm remained to him and Duc had never been one to use his legs in a fight; and nor could he for their weakened state would have made the idea idiotic beyond all belief.

No more words would he waste on his opponent, his enemy. The only thing left to do was to concentrate and take as many steps as he could to come to blows with the Death Knight.

Though it was slow and tedious he moved four feet closer.

-16-

Duc eyeballed the distance when Owen stopped. It seemed to be only six feet, just a few inches shorter then he was tall and he wondered if he could reasonably cover that distance and knew in an instance that if he gambled everyone on one move he could make his final blow.

Balanced precariously on his left foot he kicked out his right leg as far as it could go in a single bound. Leaning forward to increase the distance he more then halfed that which separated them.

The rest would be made up by Duc's right arm extending far enough to strain his shoulder joint as he slashed at an angle that would with any luck strike Owen on the left of his brow and drag down to the right of his jawline.

It was the only move he could think to do considering his wounds and the small hooked knife he had for a weapon.

-17-

The attack missing threw Duc's body off balance. He had put so much force into it that he toppled forward and fell to the ground. Which was probably lucky as the last chaos bolt missed him entirely as he lay in the soft, inviting grass of the graveyard.

He couldn't even arse himself to rise to his feet and a team of HoH Medical Aids were required to come in and drag him off to be tended to.

Duc was out for the round and it didn't even look like he'd be in any shape to perform a Striker of any sort should the need arise.

The filthy, bloodied Death Knight paid little heed to his captain, yawning loudly to cover up the immense damage he took. While the ending was rather anti-climactic, he had a rather eventful fight. Despite what the judges thought, he considered it a win for himself; he was still standing, where as his opponent was not.

"Whatever you guys decide, I'm out."

And so Owen literally crawled back into the hole he came from, burying himself in the defiled grave once more. His corpse-like hand emerged from the pit, leaving a final farewell for his teammates.

"Later, fags."

Duc had the right idea. Owen was fuggin tired.

" I'll take next boss." Damion grunted, pushing his way into a standng position before swiping the cigarette from his captains hands, spinning it in his fingers as he moved away from the other man, smirking all the while. " So, which one of you is mine?" He adressed the other team, cocking his head to the side as the smirk faded as soon as it came into being to be replaced by a look of curiousity. The tall warpainted dude looked familiar though he was sure they'd never met. Oh well.

" Aye, I can agree to that." Damion was a fairly agreeable guy, likely why he got in trouble sometimes. During his agreement though he'd be removing his boots and socks, letting his bare feet feel the grass for amoment as he held on to his left boot in the corresponding hand. He wasn't sure if that would get taken advantage of this time, he didn't waist the time to find out, placing his right hand on the headstone next to him before starting towards Deitric, weaving through the graves even if they weren't in the way, hand smacking off of each of them on their tops.

He was glad though that there was space, gave him time to size up the Warrior infront of him and gain a healthy respect. Meant he'd have to be on his guard and watch for tricks of any sort.

Round 2- start!

1/17

Damion kept up his easy pace, letting Deitric close the distance for them both as fast as he wanted. When the big man was still about 10 feet away he'd react in likely the only comedy he had ever attempted in a fight. He flung his shoe at the Braves face. That's right. Boot to The Head.

If Deitric didn't attempt to block it and instead dodged, Damion was prepared for that, moving in fast to catch Deitric as he was leaning and shove, hopefull unbalancing the other man. He would inevitably get hit in this endevor, but it wouldn't be quite as bad as a full body smash. If Deitric just blocked with a hand, he would still move in towards him, grabbing the blocking arm and twisting, right leg shooting out to trap Deitrics knee in a Ashi Guruma. Granted, it was abit unorthodox since he could grip the right places, but with the way the Brave ran it was close enough for government work.

2/17

From a distant tomb roof, with a pair of binoculars in hand (not that he was using them too much), Lazenca wondered why Ray wasn't in there, uppercutting people into tombs. He'd come to see her fight.

These other people were good... and one of the last competitors reminded him of something he'd heard. But otherwise, the lack of Kappa action was a little disappointing. Still, he'd watch in good humor.

He was also looking for Crawley, but that's more because he didn't want to be too near that guy.

Without a solid hit landing against his opponent's body, Deitric barreled past while his opponent did his best to get the hell out of Dodge. Normally, the tribesman would have to "cool off" his speed, as coming to an abrupt stop on open land could be pretty hard. Turning was pretty out of the question, at that speed. Luckily, graveyards had plenty of obstructions.

Stomping out with his left leg, the tribesman slammed his booted foot into a gravestone, using it like a brake to abruptly cease his charge. The small slab of stone seemed to groan in protest, giving way beneath the sudden abuse. Fully stopped, the warrior whirled around towards his opponent who was busily getting as far away from Deitric as he could manage.

"...," the tribesman scowled and stalked forward towards Damion, aiming to close the distance between them. By putting his back against a monument, the smaller of the two had effectively cut off his own retreat as Deitric's long stride made to close the two together again - though, with no weapon immediately in hand, it was hard to say for what purpose. More than likely, the grim looking fighter was looking to just close the distance, not try and charge again.

He wouldn't immediately attack - he just wanted to close the distance and cut off any more scurrying around on Damion's part, while hopefully forcing some sort of offensive reaction from the man.

Can't run forever..

[3]

Even though his facial features didn't show it, Deitric would've been almost relieved with the attack. Up close was where he was at home, since he hadn't drawn a weapon, and he had every intention to force Damion to attack - be it out of fear, or something else. As long as his opponent attacked at close range where they were toe to toe and he had no where to go, the tribesman as more than content.

Stone?

Without much time to ponder the consequences, Deitric responded with not so surprising ferocity. The warrior's body torqued, his left fist lashing out in what might've been the brawling translation of a left cross, aiming to smash his speeding fist into the man's face - preferably the eye socket or cheekbone. The air around the tribesman seemed to hum with energy, and not just from the heat of the fight. Turquoise eyes glowed with the spark of power, one that he was intending to deliver to his opponent. Whatever it was, there wasn't much to discern it was even there.

Quote: ►Thunder Drum - Easily the most simple (and versatile) attack Deitric can perform, he channels a small amount of energy into an arm (or leg, even) before loosing a single, strong attack with it. This attack generates a considerably larger amount of force in comparison to his normal ones. Once the strike lands, an outward explosion of force is generated, along with a small "blast radius" of electricity.

Beyond the hidden metaphysical force in the punch, there was one thing worth noting about Deitric's gloves - the knuckles had steel caps molded over them, which was hidden with an other layer of cloth so his opponent's wouldn't be alerted to the tough little "surprise" they were about to receive. Not quite as potent as a pair of knuckle dusters, but metal capped knuckles still hurt something fierce. Especially on the bony parts of the face, like the cheekbone or eyesocket.

Hopefully the stone user's head was a good drum, because Deitric planned on wailing on it for the rest of the fight.

Damion's own punch, wouldn't be avoided - not completely, anyways. There was no way he could avoid it - not if he wanted to retaliate in any efficient manner. With the turn of his body to put a little more physical power into the strike, the quick jab would hit before the black-haired tribesman's own, but not completely flush. It scored across his ribs, tattering the leather of his jacket and leaving an angry red gash beneath - but the pain was well worth what he was about to give Damion in return.

Incidentally, he'd also pay the man back for throwing the boot.

[4]

Now, Deitric was a hard man to make angry. He almost always remained stoic and calm in a situation. But after a certain time, when an opponent did certain things, even the poker faced tribesman could get riled up.

And Damion had managed to get under Deitric's clay red skin enough to really piss him off.

Letting out a war-cry that more resembled an angry, whooping howl, Deitric surged forward when his opponent tried to stop his punch, forcing his arm to fully extend forward with all the strength that was due to a man of his size. He had pushed the arm aside, but beneath the leather of the jacket, the man's arm was taut with the force of his every cord and fiber of muscle resisting the push. Not because he had anticipated it - just because he was such a stubborn b*****d and because one way or another, he was going to lay hands on the man in front of him.

The tribesman's fingers curled into the fabric of Damion's top with enough force to scratch the man's flesh as his fingers scraped the skin to catch the cloth in his white knuckle grip. Unfortunately for Damion, this was also going to transfer the full electrical shock of Deitric's rather electrifying powers, if only for a moment. But a moment was all the now angry - albeit still controlled - warrior needed.

And in that moment where the man's muscles might have seized up in response to the sudden jolt of electricity, or might've refused to listen while twitching in a split second of pain, all sorts of hell were going to break loose.

By trying to gouge Deitric's chest, his opponent had left himself completely open, and Deitric's own right exploded point blank in the foot or three between the two men in the form of a hook, aiming to take advantage of the momentary shock of being electrocuted (no pun) his opponent might be feeling. Even if he didn't, the likelihood was that Damion was busy trying to hurt Deitric while defending himself. He couldn't do both with both hands at once. All Deitric was doing was trying to hurt Damion.

A lot.

Assuming the metal-shod knuckles smashed his opponent's cheek, Deitric's right hand would grab the man by the neck while he was hopefully star gazing after the abrupt face-smashing hook. Without hesitation, the larger fighter would simply use the dual grip to lift the smaller man right up off the ground, and then--

CRACK

--Smash him back down, small of the back first onto the grave-stone he'd been using as a support. With his opponent literally bent over backwards on the tombstone, Deitric's non-throttling hand was going to start pummeling, the wrathful tribesman looming over Damion and pumping his left arm up and down as many times as he could, aiming for the underside of the man's upturned face.

That was assuming, of course, that everything went to plan.

As for any attempts to wound the tribesman, he didn't really show much in the ways of caring. While by no means a Spartiate, Deitric did have his own sort of aphobos - the lack of fear that certain warrior cultures had mastered. He didn't fear pain, nor did he fear defeat. His opponent was leaving some no doubt bloody cuts in his flank and across his chest, but they weren't fatal, and they weren't going to end the fight, as thin as his claws were. The only reaction the tribesman had to pain was the intent of causing even more pain for the one hurting him.

It also didn't help that he was more than a little pissed off, and he'd sooner spit in Pain's eye than give up the chance of pummeling this particular opponent in the face as many times as he could. He still had some semblance of control, but for one of the rare times in his career, he was more intent on causing harm than just winning.

[5][No problem.]

In the current situation, there wasn't much Deitric could do. His arms bent as he moved to lift his opponent post-hook to the face, and when he saw that his opponent's feet were coming up of their own free will, and worse yet there were more stone claws ahead, the warrior did the only thing he could.

He worked faster.

And he put his weight into it.

When the other man sought to gut him, the brave immediately leaned forward into the downward slam, cutting Damion's rise into the air short - after all, his opponent's lifting of his own legs would mean he didn't have to really lift him much at all, so much as bring him back down hard, with gusto, and with the press of his own body.

However, the plan was a tad different - not borne of genius, but of necessity. He wasn't about to get tore up anymore, if he could avoid it. When the earthen warrior's taloned feet came up, the roaring tribesman leaned into them with all his weight while he completed what was now as much of a pressure press as it was a slam. He was adding his weight to the equation, and in doing so kept his opponent's legs from going crazy figure-eight skating all over his abdomen by pinning them between the two. He pulled the muscles as tense as he could, but at the moment all he could do was wish he'd worn his armored vest beneath his jacket to this round.

Another thing that occured - a bad thing for Deitric - was that more pressure was placed on the initial puncture wounds, which didn't feel too good pressing into the muscles of his abs and hip flexors, depending on where Damion's feet were. However, a few extra centimeters in depth were much better than deep and long rakes across muscles that played a fair part in fighting. The leather was absorbing a little bit of the damage, but not much - and the shirt beneath was as good as paper, for all the stopping power it had.

What this did mean though, was that trading a bit more blood in the process, Deitric's slam just became a whole helluva lot more potent. When he slammed Damion down on the gravestone (with the gravestone perpendicular to the man's spine, not parallel), all of Deitric's own weight was going to be forced onto the small of his back, essentially bending him on the gravestone like some sort of torture rack. The human back and spine were pretty tough - but they could still be damaged, injured, or otherwise hurt. This also left Damion in a bad spot, pain aside - one hand on Deitric's wrist, one still somewhere about his flank or chest, and the both feet stuck between them. Not a single limb touched stone or earth - just the small of his back, which was under a whole lot of pressure at that moment.

Deitric's own left hand had since joined the other so that his right could pull back and continue the pummeling, while the left took up the job of effectively choking the earth elemental. Suffice to say, the Khasmin man's right, steel-knuckled fist and Damion's face were going to get acquainted and have quite a few exchanges, if Deitric had anything to say on the matter.

That was, assuming his opponent was still fit to fight after whatever punishment had just been put through his back. To turn the tables though, Deitric wasn't in a terribly great position either - he had long, angry gouges torn from one flank across his chest just beneath the pectoral muscles which turned his white shirt red beneath the jacket, and now he had anywhere between four and ten small, somewhat agonizing puncture wounds in his abdomen around the belly button. Simply put, he was starting to look like a bloody mess, but under the touch of his balled up fist, Damion wouldn't look much better.

[6]

Air wheezed out of Deitric's lungs in a hiss as the twin poles of stone caught him from beneath and smashed up into his rib-cage. Something shifted with the force, and it felt like something had cracked, fractured, or moved in a way that it shouldn't have. Since he wasn't on the ground writhing in pain, it at least meant nothing was broken or too horribly damaged. While he could've kept up trying to pummel the man, it didn't seem as though that course of action was all too feasible.

Instead, the tribesman's punching hand grabbed Damion by the arm that had been clawing his side and he set his legs further back while heaving back with all the strength he could muster. While this would free the opponent's legs and keep his abdomen from getting tore up anymore, neither effect was why he had started to move.

THWACK

With the brave's grip on the other man's body, his sudden backwards heave would yank the man forcefully from his stone torture rack and - hopefully - smash him face first into one of the pillars the man had grown forth to assault the Khasmin warrior with. Without stopping afterwards to see if Damion had gotten to make kiss-kiss faces with the pillar, the bloodied Deitric twisted and half-spun, throwing the other man head first into the nearest gravestone across the open space of graves - only about five or six feet away. It wasn't likely that Damion could really do much to stop him, as far as Deitric was concerned - at least, it seemed that way.

Stumbling off to the side from the force of his own toss, the warrior leaned up against a nearby statue, waiting to see if his opponent would rise again and continue fighting. He put his left hand on his belt, while his right was running over his upper-body, trying to assess any damage. Pressure against his ribs sent a jolt of pain through him, but none of them shifted at the touch. The initial gashes in his side were still bleeding, but now it was just a drip-drop affair. The nasty constellation of stab wounds gouged into his abdomen didn't feel horrible, except that a small chip of stone had gotten stuck in the leather and kept scraping one of the wounds. Still painful though, and it hurt any time he really put his core strength to use.

Luckily, Deitric had suffered flesh wounds, for the most part. They were painful, and they bled, but they did little to hinder him, beyond making him a little weary of tearing the wounds open further. His opponent, while bleeding a great deal less, could possibly be in a much worse position, all things considered.

Stay down..

[7]

Deitric watched his opponent warily, and the man seemed to be assessing his own injuries, albeit doing so whilst laying on the ground. That was fine - a second of repose was what Deitric needed. Unzipping the tattered leather jacket, the warrior shrugged it off, revealing a sleeveless, once-white T-shirt that was now half-painted in crimson.

The fighter folded the leather garment in half and then wrapped it tightly about his middle, using the sleeves to tie it in place as quickly as he could. It might've looked odd, but he had good reason - the tightly bound garment was going to help keep pressure on the wounds. It was a pretty crappy job, but it was better than leaving the open wounds to the abuse of his opponent or the environment around them. The tribesman had to wince, though - it certainly didn't feel good on a couple of his ribs, forcing the bile to rise in his throat for a second before he fought it down.

Removing the jacket revealed two things - first, his left arm was covered from the shoulder all the way down in some sort of tribal tattoo. Second, it revealed the counterparts of his greaves - a bracer covered each forearm in still halfway towards the elbow from the wrist. The one covering his left arm was scratched and gouged from his opponent's claw-hand.

Having regained some measure of his stoicism, Deitric's left hand reached down and yanked free the tomahawk that sat cinched between his belts. His right hand remained free and open, and his eyes stayed glued to the man and area directly ahead of him. He'd had a little more time than Damion had to get his breath back - maybe a second or three at most, but every second counted.

As soon as he felt ready (about the time Damion got standing again), the tribesman began forward slowly. Now, the air around them cackled audibly, and beneath the brave's furrowed brow his eyes glowed from within.

Round two..

"Let's go."

[8]

What was it with this guy and throwing things? First the show-- now a stone cross.

Luckily, the cross was a tad more obvious than the boot, given the strain his opponent seemed to have with picking it up. It didn't really seem swing-worthy with all that weight, but it made a lot of sense to hurl the thing at someone.

With the cross spun through the air like an axe, Deitric took a long side-step to get himself out of the way, turning his body so that his right hand was forward and to try and minimize his profile as the stone cross flew past, smashing into a statue behind him. His glowering eyes remained ever forward though, paying no heed to the shattered cross laying at the foot of the statue the fighter had propped himself up against.

With the immediate threat of getting smashed with a large, stone item of religious importance out of the picture, the tribesman closed the distance between them, swiping his left-hand tomahawk from right to left in front of him, aiming to cut an angry gouge across his opponent's chest. His right hand remained on loose guard, closer to his body.

[9]

While it didn't make a sound, something nearly as wide as a car was easy to make out while it moved. Of course, when it was coming right for your face at close range, it wasn't exactly easy to dodge, which was, all in all, a much more important factor than simply seeing it.

Without a care for how it looked or felt, the tribesman threw all his weight back onto his heels and further to his right, literally tossing himself off his feet in the same direction of his side-step, making the conservative dodge suddenly exaggerated and off-kilter. The earth column shot into the air where Deitric's head and upper most chest used to be, while he fell back onto his onto his tucked shoulder and rolled, forcing himself back up as quickly as he could. Calling it a close shave was more than a little bit of an understatement - when he rose, dirt fell from his hair that had come from the column.

Assuming Damion was in the same place as previous, Deitric was going to hurl his tomahawk as hard as he could at the man, aiming to catch him in the left shoulder. The angry owner of that weapon followed shortly after, another weapon in hand - this time, it was a rather mean looking gunstock club, held in both hands like a baseball bat, with the inward curve turned towards Damion so that he could get a taste of getting bludgeoned with well aged wood. Now, the warrior looked calm, except for the burning turquoise eyes. He was seething, and now it was being focused into getting up close and personal with the other fighter.

[10]

It wouldn't necessarily be that simple to go after the earth user. The column had left a gaping hole in the ground behind it where the dirt used to be, it had to have come from somewhere right? That wouldn't stop the tomohawk from flying, but it would buy him some time to move out of the way of the flying axe, leaning to the right so that it went past him, but not moving his feet. He wouldn't run anymore, it might aswell end here. A quick reassesment put him in a side stance, his left arm presented and hands tucked up near his face as he bent his left knee out towards the approaching warrior.

He didn't have much martial training as far as strikes with his hands or feet went, but he could always fake it. Such as he would now. Not much he could do now other than wait for the first strike from that weapon.

11/17

No time for a smile, a chuckle, or a grin, Damion had to move and move now. Most people would shy away from the weapon, perhaps suck in their guts to prevent damage or any other such thing. He would do the opposite, and leap in past the weapon and into Deitrics leading arm. This did two things, lessening the damage by hitting closer to the swinging point, and also let him shoot his hands in and grip either side the warriors face for just a breif moment before being thrown off like a cat.

That one second of grip would slice through the skin of the Braves face however, as the claws on Damion's hands were still very sharp and more than ready to draw blood once again in the name of defense. Damion would fly through the air for amoment before landing on his feet, rolling for amoment on his right side in a controlled roll before coming to his feet in a crouch, hands up to either side just like before. If his plan had worked right, the skin of Deitrics face, from just behind the jaw and across the cheeks, would be open and bleeding from 10 ragged cuts, 5 to each side.

Not that he came out of this unscathed, his ribs now hurt and breath was hard to come by, but he wasn't about to leap back in to combat and he was sure neither was Deitric at the moment, so he had time to recover. Some.

12/17

((to Crawley and Reinhart. Ebag wants people to start posting which fight their attacks belong to if multiple fights are going on in one place. IE, start posting Reinhart vs. Crawley. Me and Viz will do likewise))

[Damion vs Deitric]

Deitric watched his opponent leap into the blow. If he wanted to get hit harder, the tribesman was going to accommodate him.

Quote: Eagle's Dance - With this attack, Deitric throws himself into a whirlwind of spinning motion, his tomahawks (or fists) whirling around as the warrior turns himself into a human cyclone of sharp steel and shocking electricity. This attack isn't very draining on Deitric, and generally used to drive an opponent back, should they be bearing too heavily on the tribesman for his tastes.

Deitric's attack transformed into a full force spin, cackling electricity jumping and leaping around his body and in the air. While this might not do a terrible amount of damage to Damion behind electrocution - he'd still stepped in past the prime striking range of the club - it was going to do something else.

With the force of the spin applied through his arms, Damion was going to be hurled off to the left forcefully enough to get a bit of air-time, while Deitric was left to spin a few more rotations before coming to a halt. At worst, he'd suffer some electrical burns or muscle cramps, and hit something made out of stone. But the tribal warrior couldn't aim his opponent's flight, so Damion was about as likely to smash into something as his luck would allow.

The counter attack hadn't left the brave's face unharmed though. The earth elementalist's longest claw on his left hand - the middle finger - would catch him on the cheek and leave a long, thing cut across his cheekbone and over his nose, leaving the other cheek unscathed. After his opponent was thrown, Deitric could only wince - even if it wasn't deep, any sort of wounds to or around the face hurt a great deal, simply because of the sensitivity of the flesh and skin.

The wound washed blood down the side of his face, coating his left c***k in a new cover of bloody war-paint. The warrior's right hand came up instinctively to wipe away the blood, even if it was no use, smearing it with his war-paint. It burned and screamed with pain, but when he pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, he didn't feel anything particularly thin or open, and the wound didn't appear to be bone-deep. Just a lot of blood. Not that it was a good thing, bloodloss was bloodloss.

If Damion rose after the shock and whatever he might've landed on (if anything), Deitric would wait to see if the man rose, instead opting to focus on generating as much electrical power as he could. Veins in the warrior's arms and neck visibly thickened as the power coursed through his body, the occasional pop crackling in the air.

He wanted to finish it. Now.

[12]

Deitric grunted at the success of his counter, the feeling of his opponent being pushed away with the abrupt spin he'd put on his attack. When he came to a stop, Damion was up and on the guard. He'd hoped to physically throw his opponent a bit, but he hadn't been able to generate that much force in his attack in such a short span of time - just enough to put him off balance to roll out of range.

Deitric had little of which he could attack with. He'd been forcing the offensive for the entirety of the fight - with varying degrees of success. If his opponent was content to stand and guard, the tribesman would let him - for now. Chucking his club aside so that is tuck spike blade first into the ground, the warrior returned to an empty hand policy for time being, opting instead to focus as much of the electrical energy he could generate.

Now, that was where the power could become dangerous - instead of letting it build naturally and releasing it at once, he was forcing the amount generated over any amount of time to increase, forcing the power source that he drew from the funnel him more of the cackling, snapping energy. His skin seemed to draw taut against his muscles, revealing unseen striations and veins that bulged with the sudden bloodflow. The tribesman seemed almost locked into place as he stared Damion down - almost as if he was forcing the current through his own muscles, forcing them to react to the stimulus - both good and bad. Whether he was pumping up his own physical abilities, or doing something else - such as energy storage - was hard to say.

"C'mon," the red skinned warrior dared quietly, his head tilted up slightly to stare his opponent down coldly with the brilliant glare of his eyes, which had went from turquoise to an almost shimmering blue-white. His hands remained at his sides, almost taunting his opponent into attacking by his lack of a defense or offense. It was hard to say if the process of forcefully drawing more power than normal was painful, or if forcing himself to retain it was worse, because the tribesman showed little in regards to what was happening.

Nothing, except a smile.

[13/17][Damion vs Deitric]

Deitric brought his hands up, but didn't appear able to stop his opponent's attack, maybe even out of surprise by the sudden offensive the earth elamentalist had taken. The jab caught him on the jawbone opposite the side that had been cut, jarring his head slightly with the blow.

The tribesman didn't seem likely to even dodge the second blow - in fact, he raised his arms up and a little wide (albeit still in a loose guard), as if he had misinterpreted Damion's intention. Maybe he had thought the other man was going for some sort of one-two combo, or something similar.

Or maybe he had another thing coming in store for his opponent.

Quote: ►Rolling Thunder - This is the hand to hand form of the Storm of Spears, and largely considered more powerful and versatile. Deitric channels his power into his upper body, especially his arms. He utilizes the energy to fuel a storm of flying fists; the speed, heat, and charge of electricity in the air around his attacks making it look as if he's throwing hundreds of punches (as opposed to the real number of 1-2 dozen), giving it the nickname of "The Thousand Fist Combo."

At the same time the second blow struck the padded wounds - which no doubt sent screaming pain surging anew through his body - Deitric unleashed a raging storm of punches that literally blurred the air around him in electricity, almost as if a heatwave had blown off his person. While he had eaten both punches, Damion was going to be caught right in the middle of a storm of hard knuckled blows, aimed mostly for his upper-body and head with, both of Deitric's arms pumping away like high speed pistons to rain down blows on him faster than he should've been able to.

The tribesman, since coming to Gaia, had adopted a very harsh, painful philosophy to combat.

Sacrifice. If he could draw someone in and sacrifice his own blood or flesh, he would find a way to force them to sacrifice even more of theirs. That was part of the basic principle he used in his fighting against most opponents, and he was using it clearly here - let Damion get in close and eat blows while looking off-guard, before unleashing a hard-wrought tempest on the man at the same time the hook would strike.

Essentially, the two men were trading blows - Deitric let the jab lead in and hit him nearly flush, and when the second attack came, the brave responded at nearly the same time, essentially having the two men bludgeon each other. The part that made this plan play into his favor was that he was simply hitting him a lot more than he was getting hit - in the span of time he or Damion would've normally thrown a single punch, he was throwing three or four. The attack would wear itself out quickly, but it would wear Damion out even quicker to even be caught up in its path.

The question that stood, however, was how long Damion could stand under the barrage, or if he'd be able to extricate himself from it once under its rain of blows.

[14/17][Damion vs Deitric]

Luckily for Damion, in order for Deitric to use his technique, he had to be standing in place - he could move, but it lessened the power of his punches, and therefore rarely happened. When he say the other man relent and stumble away, he forced every muscle on his form taut. His control had increased considerably from the last time he had been in Heaven or Hell - before, he would've just stood there for a second or two, continuing to punch the air like some sort of idiot, unable to stop the flow of power or conserve any.

He did, however, try to follow up when his opponent launched himself forward for another go, aiming to try and spear the tribesman headfirst. Tackling people - and the sports where such a thing was advocated - were the long haired warrior's forte. He knew how to tackle, and how to dodge. He also knew that, sometimes, dodging from side to side wasn't the best thing to do when presented with other, more colorful options.

Damion smashed head-first into Deitric's stomach, tearing one of the wounds open enough that black spots erupted around the corners of his vision and nearly dragged him down. But the reserves of his static power kept him awake, his mind running on adrenaline and the sort of stupid determination only a fighter might possess. When his opponent's head struck him, he leaned forward so that the blow would force his opponent's body and his own into a standstill for a second. A second was all the Khasmin man wanted - all he needed.

Both hands in the air, clasped together, the warrior let out a war cry of both determination and pain and brought them down like Thor's Hammer, a double-fisted blow right to the small of his opponent's back, which had been subject to some serious pain in the previous moments of the match. The warrior poured the last of his spark into the blow, forcing his body to output another Thunder Drum styled attack, hoping to fuel the attack with his own metaphysical brand of power and end the fight once and for all.

Perhaps if the tribesman had decided to start his engine earlier, he'd of had enough electrical energy to make more power attacks, but as it was, he had forced his body to output more power in a shorter amount of time than usual. The strain, combined with his wounds, meant that he couldn't keep it up for any longer. He'd have to stop using his electricity for the remainder of the bout - if there was anything of a bout left.

If his double-handed hammerfist blow was enough to drop Damion for good, Deitric would simply stumble back and find a good place to rest his weary body. He really, really regretted not wearing the chest piece he typically wore, and swore he'd do so in the next round. He'd of bled a whole lot less if he'd worn the thing.

[15/17]

Deitric's double-hand came down, striking between the fallen man's legs (or on one of them, if he were that unlucky) with a heavy thud on the earth. He didn't hear the telltale beep of his FIGHTER telling him that their time was almost up. What he did notice was his opponent moving. That, he didn't like one bit. Luckily, his legs were in perfectly working order, even if everything from the waist up burned with pain.

The warrior's response was simple, but abrupt and brutal in execution. He threw his weight back a bit and spun, aiming to land with both of his knees right on the middle of Damion's spine in a bone jarring landing that would put all two hundred and fifty or so pounds of Deitric's mass right on the man's already injured back. Since a human body wasn't the best landing, Deitric's legs would be forced to spread, putting him into a "mount" position on his opponent's back, pinning him to the earth beneath him. Unfortunately for the earth elementalist, he wouldn't see this - he was crawling through Deitric's legs and couldn't see the warrior's movements at all from his perspective. All he would get was the feeling of crushing weight.

And then the tribesman started punching.

With his opponent forcefully pinned between his knees and laying on the ground on his back, Deitric's fists were going to be pushing out some serious pain all over the back of the man's head and neck. Even if he kept trying to crawl, the tribesman would grab Damion by the base of the neck to pin him down even further, and with his steel shod knuckles and the amount of damage the guy's head had gone through, it was going to be hard to get through the last offensive the tribesman was making.

He didn't have any more cackling, shocking power to use, but he did have plain, old fashioned physical brawn and a fair amount of rage and a good target. Deitric didn't worry about counting punches - he was just going to pump his arm(s) and bash the man's head until he stopped trying to fight - or retreat, as it were.

THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD--

[16/17]

Deitric had his fist cocked back to punch when the club came up. The tribesman turned his arm at the elbow and the club smashed flush against his bracer, breaking off the last few inches. At the same time, his own FIGHTER beeped incessantly at him, letting the warrior know that the match was over. With a growl, the bloody tribesman stood up, using his grip on the man's shirt and one on his arm to haul his opponent up to a standing position.

"Good fight," he offered calmly, turning away to retrieve his weapons before stalking quietly from the fighting area to his team's sidelines to watch the next fight. His body was bloodied and bruised, with a few deeper injuries here and there, but for the most part, he felt he had done well. If only he'd had a little more time.

For now though, he took up his position with his team, waiting for the next fight to start.

[17/17][Fight - completed.]

Cristopher Reinhart Wrote:

Crawley versus Reinhart, round three start. C vs R

Crawley walked straight towards Reinhart with his hands at his sides. The pace seemed rather relaxed, almost as if he isn't making any progress in the walk. As if it was with no intentions.

But this was a fight.

And everybody has bad intentions.

He's coming.

[1]

C vs R

Swoosh. Crawley wasn't there for his punches. Completely gone...

... From the line of sight anyway.

From below, Crawley's left hand shot up into the right side of Reinhart's chest to seize his shirt and yank him down - forward. His right hand slapped the ground as he slid his left leg between his opponent's and swiveled on the ground around Reinhart's left leg until he was 'hugged' against it. His hands were clasped tight in a grip around the leg.

If he kicked, he'd be kicking at nothing. And the following would happen twice as fast.

As he stood up he drove his head into Reinhart's right side and rushed forward with the captured leg to force the guy off balance and to the ground where Crawley crashed down on top of him...

... Sitting on his left thigh.

2