Blacksmith vs Wiji

squoosh . . .

squish . . .

thump . . .

rustle . . .

squish . . .

Slowly and deliberately, a solitary figure threaded his way through the trees, maneuvering across the uneven, treacherous ground, taking pains to avoid getting stuck in the mud or tripping on a root. He was a solid-looking guy, standing just over 6 feet tall and carrying what had to be more than 200 pounds on his frame, mostly in muscle. His head, shrouded in a tight-fitting balaclava that obscured everything except his eyes, was tilted downward to study his footing and plot a course, though the military goggles pushed up over his forehead could have given the illusion, from a distance, that he was still studying the forest around him. He wore woodland camouflage fatigues, obviously chosen to help him blend with the environment, and his torso, neck, biceps, knees and elbows were clad in military-grade body armor of some kind, black and therefore less suited for concealment. Three knives were visible on his person: one strapped to his right thigh, another inverted on his chest of his vest near the left shoulder, and the last to the back of his waist, along with a pair of steel canteens secured to the rear of his belt and a rectangular pouch on his right side. Lastly, and most importantly in this environment, he sported hard, menacing black combat boots, tromping through the muck with determination. It was ideal footwear for this kind of terrain, waterproofed against the moisture and lined with large hard treads to offer maximum traction.

That being said, it was still a slog, because even good boots could only do so much.

rustle . . .

thud . . .

Crack

The man who had cryptically chosen to identify himself only as Blacksmith had glanced away from the forest floor, just for a moment, to check his FIGHTER’s open GPS application. That was when his foot had slipped off a mossy tree root and on to a brittle twig, led astray by distraction. Like a startled animal, he hunched down and tensed, pivoting his head to scan the trees with hazel eyes. His right hand moved to hover near the knife on his chest.

Blacksmith strained his eyes, trying to spy unusual movement, shapes, or color among the foliage and branches; strived to hear anything beyond the occasional bird calls and susurrus of the breeze slipping through the leaves. He crouched there for a long time, only breaking his gaze once to check the GPS again, reaffirming that, yes, this was the right spot for his preliminary match. Either he was the first to arrive, or this ‘Wigi’ was exceptionally gifted in the art of stealth and camouflage. The latter was doubtful, considering his weight and size, not to mention what little footage of him Blacksmith had been able to find and study from a previous tournament year – subtlety didn’t appear to be the Ogre’s forte. Still, it didn’t pay to make broad assumptions, not in Heaven or Hell. Who knew what a competitor might have up their sleeve?

Regardless, his trained senses couldn’t pick out anything around, above, or behind him. Hoping that he hadn’t ruined a chance to get the drop on his first opponent, Blacksmith sighed softly, and crept, still hunched and wary, to crouch and put his back to the hefty base of the nearest tree. He would wait here for Wigi to arrive, and ambush him if he could. If the Changeling weren’t already present, that is.

Zeo Hiroboshi Wrote:

Blacksmith apparently did not have long to wait. Only moments after he had settled in to wait. He heard noises, just around the other side of the tree. A single, strange noise, specifically.

"Cat food?" he thought, brow furrowing incredulously as the sound of an aluminum peel top reached his ears.

Carefully, he shifted his weight and pivoted to face the trunk, placed a hand on a root to stabilize himself, and leaned slowly to peer around the left side of the tree. After a bit of stealthy shuffling, he soon glimpsed the right side of Wigi's body just a few feet away. He took a moment to study his opponent, noting his armor and weaponry, his distance, the direction he was facing, and the fact that he was eating . . . something -- he really hoped it wasn't actually cat food. Then he inched the exposed portion of his head back out of sight, trying not to alert Wigi's peripheral vision, and sprung into action.

As he listened carefully for any signs that Wigi was moving around -- particularly signs that signaled he was moving towards the masked man's hiding spot -- his gloved left land snaked into his pocket, and extracted a cheap butane lighter. Meanwhile, the right slipped deftly under the flap of the pouch at his hip, extracting an object that looked like a hot dog with a green bit of string sticking out of the end.

He flicked the lighter, making a small prayer that the ogre wouldn't detect the noise, and it produced a tiny flame, which he applied to the end of the string. Apparently a fuse, it sparked to life and emitted a barely audible hissing as it burned away. Blacksmith began a countdown from five in his head.

"Five."

He slipped the lighter back into his pocket, and swung his right arm back past his hip, as though he were preparing to roll a bowling ball.

"Four."

He rose from his crouch, and leaned out to the right, just far enough to make an underhanded toss of his device around the trunk, blindly towards Wigi's feet, using his best guess of Wigi's last known position.

"Three."

It would tumble awkwardly through the air, end over end. Blacksmith ducked back down and reached out with his left hand to close his hand around a stick half-buried in mud that he'd had to gingerly step over earlier. The moist soil parted between his fingers, and the bark rasped under his touch.

"Two."

The hissing hot dog would land with a soft thump in a bed of moss, nearly four feet directly in front of Wigi's right foot (assuming he was still there) -- a good toss, but not as accurate as he had wanted. It was almost on the edge of its effective range. Blacksmith stood and ripped the stick, three feet long and a couple inches thick, free from the earth, and grasped the opposite end in his right hand. His adrenaline glands surged, signaling the return of the most familiar feeling in his world.

"One."

His senses expanded, his grip tightened, and the fuse disappeared into the:

Quote:** Wrote:

- Flashcracker: Small, custom-made firecracker, colloquially termed 'Hot dog' for its size, shape, and color: a pinkish-brown cylinders roughly 4 inches long and an inch wide. Each firecracker comes with an unique explosives mixture contained inside a cardboard shell. They are based on the structure and design of the infamous M-80 firecracker, and expand upon it by increasing the volume of the device, inserting additional compounds, and carefully balancing the ratios of these components. The end result is a firecracker intended to function as a scaled-down stun grenade. It has less explosive power than the M-80 upon which it is based, rendering it unlikely to seriously maim or injure (though it’s still not recommended that one hold it in a closed fist, as it can still break fingers), trading it off for a louder report and much brighter flash so that each firecracker has the capability to stun (with sound) and blind for a few moments (1 turn). They have an effective range of 5 feet, with potency of these effects dropping off sharply beyond that. These effects can be mitigated, of course, by a combatant with the presence of mind to cover their ears or shield their eyes. Blacksmith is not immune to these effects, and must also take steps to protect himself accordingly. The maximum fuse length of each firecracker is 5 seconds, and each is marked by textured white bands to denote the 3-second and 1-second points.

B L A M

Blacksmith would respond to the report like a starter's pistol, loping clockwise around the circumference of the tree where the soil was firmer between the moisture-soaking roots at the base, with his stick raised horizontally in front of him. It would only take a moment to spot Wigi again, assuming the giant hadn't moved much. If he were to appear incapacitated in any way, either by light or sound, Blacksmith would continue hopping toward him at the fastest pace he could manage without falling flat on his face, which is to say, he would near Wigi within ten seconds, stick still raised out in front.

Otherwise, well, he'd just have to find a way to improvise.

Current Energy Level: 0

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[1/10]

[Edit to make minor correction and insert post number]

Zeo Hiroboshi Wrote:

Blacksmith noted with some satisfaction, as he came around the tree, that Wigi had discarded his primary weapon to cover his apparently deafened ears. Alas, he had managed to avoid blindness, if the way he locked eyes upon his attacker and turned to face him was anything to judge by. As such, Blacksmith made a slight modification to his plan of action.

Since Wigi had dropped his bat, the stick he had grabbed was no longer necessary to defend himself against its blows. It was now more useful as an offensive tool. After he moved his left hand next to his right at the other end of the stick, wielding it more like a club, he paused briefly in his rushed hopping and stepping about five feet away from Wigi to set his stance firmly, cocked the stick over his right shoulder like a bat of his own, and swung hard. He let the muddy branch slip from grip in the process, sending roughly a dozen pounds of water-logged wood whirling like a propeller towards the changeling's legs. Counting on the fact that the mire would make it difficult to move out of the way quickly, as well as the likelihood that Wigi's sense of balance would be disturbed by his deafness (since balance is generally reliant on the inner ear being able to sense the shifting of fluid, and is interfered with by sudden hearing loss), he was aiming to give either one of his kneecaps a good crack.

Intending to capitalize on the throw, whether it struck true or simply distracted Wigi long enough to deflect or dodge it somehow, Blacksmith resumed his advance as soon as the stick left his hands, both of which now rose up to head height, shoulder-width apart, elbows tucked in close to his sides. Moments later, as he closed the distance to three feet or so, Blacksmith started to raise his leg for a running thrust kick off of Wigi's abdomen, Wigi chose to follow the advice of kindergarten teachers everywhere and share his snack with him.

Blacksmith was the sort of person who prided himself on being relatively unflappable, prepared to expect the unexpected, but even he was startled by spittle and half-chewed worm chunks spraying into his face and eyes. Unable to help himself, he flinched and began blinking his eyes rapidly to clear them. His muscles seized up for the briefest of instants, enough to disrupt his careful timing and momentum, and caused his boot to catch briefly on a small root. Instead of kicking out at Wigi, he took another stumbling pair of steps directly into him. Sensing his mistake, Blacksmith did his best to adjust it into another attack, shifting the orientation of his torso to pit his left forearm behind his skull and point his right side forward, turning it into an impromptu right shoulder tackle to drive the armor of his shoulder guards into the giant's chest.

What had originally been a plan to kick the big guy on the ground where Rising Star's leader could systematically pick him apart from a standing position had become, in execution, a body check that would leave them both mired in the mud, with Blacksmith splayed atop Wigi's torso. It was sloppy, but it was all he could do under the circumstances.

[2/10]

The ground squelched obscenely beneath the hefty bodies of the two struggling combatants, doing little to resist their combined weight. Blacksmith knew he was in some trouble now, as Wigi's massive arms tightened around him. Thankfully, the arm trapped in the changeling's embrace and his vest kept the bigger, stronger fighter from completely ventilating his lungs, but that was a lesser concern once he felt Wigi's weight shift and start to roll atop him.

Blacksmith bent his left knee to get his foot behind him, trying to use the leg as a prop to keep the two of them from turning over completely, but even the treads of his boot found little to grip in the soggy soil. It delayed only for a moment before the mud slid out from underneath his foot, allowing Wigi to complete the roll, but at least it afforded Blacksmith a moment to pull his right forearm out to lay along his side, aided by the slipperiness of the muck that had coated them both upon landing, before it could be sandwiched and trapped between their torsos.

As most of the oxygen was shoved unceremoniously out of his lungs by 300 pounds of ogre (the vest afforded good protection, but it was also fairly flexible), Blacksmith wrapped his legs, splayed out to the sides by his opponent's maneuver, around Wigi's waist, in an attempt to gain some purchase on the bigger man's body. At that point, eager for an opportunity to breathe more than a handful of air at a time, he decided that was high time to start ruining some s**t.

His left arm, pushed upward above his head by the girth of that greyish bicep, reached over and behind that blocklike cranium, and brushed gloved fingers over, first, the fabric of that bandana, and then, the oily tangled dreadlocks hanging out from underneath it. It almost looked like the two were having a tender, intimate moment -- Ouija embracing the smaller man and climbing atop him, Blacksmith encircling the body laying upon him with his legs and stroking the changeling's head -- right up until he shoved his fingers as deep into the messy hair as he could and seized a meaty fistful of it, right at the base of his skull. Thanks to the height difference and their current positioning. the top of his cranium was about level with Wigi's chin. So, once he had a good grip on the Wigi's disgusting locks, he yanked them backwards as hard as he could, then immediately switched tack and pushed his fist against the back of his head. He was counting on the abrupt reversal to catch the ogre off-guard and tilt his face forward, while Blacksmith thrashed his own skull forth to meet it, trying to smash Wigi's mouth into the hardened plastic edges of the goggles perched upon Blacksmith's forehead. Assuming that worked and he successfully stunned Mr. Ouija, he'd wash, rinse, and repeat, until Wigi found the strength to resist, or his mouth had become a bloody jack 'o' lantern-like mess. Whichever came first.

That would teach him to spit his food.

Roughly at the same time he was moving his hand behind Wigi's head, Blacksmith's right arm, pinned at the bicep put still able to move from the elbow down, took hold of the knife sheathed on his right thigh. With a quiet whisper of metal on plastic that was lost beneath the grunting and squelching of their muddy struggle, he pulled the weapon free, and as he attempted to headgogglebutt Wigi, swung his forearm up to stab it into the changeling's left armpit, just beyond the protection offered by the brigandine. Since Wigi's armpits would be level with Blacksmith's biceps, he'd probably be able to slide more than 4 inches of the near-7-inch blade into the grey flesh, whereupon he'd twist it violently and begin slicing the razor-like edge up the arm, along the underside of his tricep. The kind of wounds likely to be inflicted included damaged muscles and tendons critical to the full movement range of the arm, a sliced axillary artery, and -- if his aim were true -- a pierced lung slowly filling with blood.

With his own arms pinned into place under the 200+ pounds of Blacksmith, resisting the masked man's offensive seemed unlikely, and the situation began to look dire for Wigi Ouja.

Current Energy Level: 0

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[3/10]

[Edit: Whoops, image-tagged when I meant to hotlink.]

Wigi may have been unwilling to give up his position, but he sure seemed ready to surrender the advantages he'd gained. Pulling his right arm out from beneath Blacksmith meant releasing the crushing vise grip he'd obtained, allowing him more license to breathe. Wigi also chose to angle and slide his left arm down along Blacksmith's body to restrict his forearm, but without his opposite arm in place to continue applying pressure from all sides, he succeeded in one thing only: giving him room to maneuver.

Blacksmith seized the opportunity. He released his legs from around the large guy's waist and dug his heels into the mud near Wigi's knees, to get a little additional space between him and the changeling, and started wiggling his torso to give his arm just a tiny little bit of extra room between him and Wigi's muscle. Thanks to the mud that had coated both their arms during their struggles, it would be child's play to start twisting that arm through the changeling's grip. Assuming the ogre didn't find a new way to restrict him, that arm would be popping free within seconds, slashing the edge of the knife -- which appeared to have been extracted undetected -- along the inside of Wigi's elbow in the process.

Meanwhile, at the other end of things, his attempts to headbutt Wigi's mouth weren't seeing much success in the face of resistance and superior leverage, so he ceased in favor of trying to focus on maintaining that death grip on his opponent's hair. Unfortunately, the ogre was obviously stronger than the other man, could pull his head in the opposite direction, and had hair filled with oils that had obviously . . . accumulated over some time, so if he the big guy wasn't hesitant about yanking it out in spite of the pain it might cause, it wouldn't be long before Wigi's head was free. Still, his fingers had been firmly entrenched, so they wouldn't be coming away without some of that matted, grimy hair clutched in a fist, maybe with a bit of scalp attached.

With that done, he watched Wigi whip his head up, clearly telegraphing a headbutt, and hunched his shoulders and tucked his head instinctively, as he'd been taught by experience to do. Though he couldn't get his chin all the way down against chest because of the vest's collar, it was enough to place his goggles in the line of fire instead. Wigi, apparently a charitable guy, had chosen to do Blacksmith's work for him. The goggles were rated to resist damage against powerful impacts, but the force of that big skull slamming against the toughened plastic would be enough to leave a big fracture running partway through the right side of lens. Wigi would probably receive a nice laceration across the center of his forehead and a ringing headache for his helpful efforts, while Blacksmith would feel rattled and bruised by the force of the blow, but ultimately better off than his assailant thanks to the bit of padding on the inside of the goggles.

[4/10]

[Edited after a bit of discussion with my opponent.]

In a move that Blacksmith had not expected, Wigi rolled his enormous girth off of and away from the masked man as he got the knife free, narrowly avoiding a very unpleasant experience in the process. Still, even if he'd missed an opportunity to carve up Wigi's face like the log it resembled, it was nice not to have all that weight pressing down on him anymore. Taking advantage of that fact, Blacksmith yanked himself out of the mire he'd been pressed into with an audible sucking noise, and scrambled to his feet as quickly as the soft earth allowed, determined not give Wigi a chance to get him while he was down.

He managed to pick himself up at roughly the same time, but rather than remain stationary like his opponent did, he started sidestepping to the right as Wigi drew his knife and pointed, circling with slow and measured steps to move out of the mud pit they had wrestled in on to more stable footing. Apparently unperturbed by the fact that more than 60% of his body was coated with mud and bits of forest detritus, his gaze remained focused on Wigi, but expressionless, as he raised his right arm to position his hand defensively near his face. The knife twirled briefly in the fingers of his mud-smeared glove into an ice pick grip.

Meanwhile his left hand, still clutching tufts of Wigi's dreads and clad in a relatively clean glove since it had been busy grabbing his hair instead of scrabbling in the mud, reached into his left pants pocket. He extracted something in an enclosed fist. It wasn't clear what the object was, but it was small enough to be hidden entirely within his fingers, save for a small glint of metal poking out of the top of his fist, but even that was obscured by his thumb and bits of torn hair poking out at odd angles. His fist clenched, that "something" made a dull snapping sound, and a couple drops of clear fluid dripped out of his glove and on to the ground.

Then, without a word, Blacksmith stopped circling, about six feet away from Wigi, raising his left hand into a position that mirrored the right. His left foot moved into a stable position behind him, propping the heel off the ground, leaving the forward half of his foot to sink an inch into the topsoil. His knees bent slightly, putting him in a "ready" stance. Finally, he lifted three fingers -- the middle, ring, and pinky -- off the handle of his knife . . . and waved them with a flick of his wrist, gesturing Wigi towards him, before closing them again.

All around, the faint dappled sunlight that managed to penetrate the forest canopy faded away, replaced by a single drop of water, then two, then seven, then twenty-two, and more, in a slowly-thickening torrent. The gentle patter of an oncoming rainstorm against the leaves started to fill the air.

Current Energy Level: 0

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[5/10]

Zeo Hiroboshi Wrote:

"Have at you brute! EN GARDE!"

Blacksmith took that to mean that Wigi had accepted his invitation to attack, and his reply was simply to flick his left thumb downwards. There was a small skritch and from the exposed bit of metal -- now revealed to be the head of a lighter -- there came a small burst of sparks that sprinkled over the side of his glove. The rain was really starting to pour now, but the forest canopy diluted some of the torrent, and while the top of his glove started to grow damp with water, the underside was now soaked with very flammable butane. And so, with a very soft whoomph the fumes wafting off of his hand ignited, covering the underside of his fist in dull yellow flame.

Well, while that was going on, Wigi went for the wind-up, and hurled a rock at Blacksmith's head. He ducked, letting the stone whiz harmlessly over his head, then popped back up to his original position, right around the time Wigi was stepping forward to thrust at his chest. Blacksmith responded by twisting his torso to the left, causing the blade to glance harmlessly off of the aramid fibers and ceramic discs of his vest, as he hammered his right forearm down to push against Wigi's, shoving it down to stomach level and hooking the knife edge around the outside of the ogre's forearm in one swift motion. He would follow that up with twisting his torso back in the opposite direction, slicing the blade deep into the muscle of that gray arm and dragging it along for the ride. That would pull Wigi's knife arm out to Blacksmith's right as his blazing left fist cannoned out toward the changeling as part of the twisting motion, only to open his hand and fling out a spray of flaming butane droplets, burning dreadlock tufts, and the splintered remains of a cheap plastic lighter at his face. Should it all strike home, the fumes wafting off of those droplets would ignite and singe his features briefly -- not long enough to cause serious burns, thanks to the rain and the fact that Wigi's face was probably already growing damp -- but it would make for a terrific distraction all the same.

All-in-all, it was a quick and decisive maneuver, meant to hurt and impair him before he could realize what was going on and defend himself . . . unless Mr. Ouija had other plans that he'd already set in motion.

[6/10]

[Edited to insert additional details.]

Unfortunately, the flaming debris wasn't as effective in distracting Wigi as Blacksmith had hoped, and now he had a muddy boot being shoved at his chest to deal with as a result. Normal procedure in this case would have been to sidestep and grab his leg, try to throw him off-balance and on to the ground. However, the mud, made even softer by the rain, would suck at his feet and keep him from moving out of the way quickly enough. So instead, he let himself collapse inward and back as the blow came, absorbing some of the force behind it rather than resisting it. Doing so would help him avoid a cracked rib, as well as setting him up to tumble down with practiced smoothness, tucking his body up tightly, to redirect the momentum of his fall into a backwards somersault. He'd end his tumble it in a kneeling position, left knee and both hands pressed into the moist earth, the knife still clasped firmly in his right hand, the flame on his burning left glove now extinguished, his goggles lost, his dripping head tilted up to watch for Wigi's next move. It wasn't particularly smooth or graceful move, with sore spots all over his back from being jabbed painfully through the vest by exposed roots and even more cold mud clinging to his body than ever before, but it succeeded in keeping him from landing in a far more vulnerable position. He'd get a couple of new bruises, a hot shower, and a new change of clothes after he left this fight, but ultimately he was no worse for the wear.

What he did from there depended on Wigi's follow-up. He'd probably be granted a moment of respite while he somersaulted, since using a push kick would also throw off the bigger man's balance for a moment. From the moment he stopped rolling, though, it'd be up to the ogre to determine the course of the action.

[7/10]