Thread will end in 2 weeks time, at 12:00 PM EST on May 6th.
Best of Luck! Finish your battle early so it can be judged early!
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Thread will end in 2 weeks time, at 12:00 PM EST on May 6th.
Best of Luck! Finish your battle early so it can be judged early!
Osato shifted through the citadel, moving through the crowd of people. His former opponent had given him nothing but a mind full of anger. He had joined the tournament in order to fight, to be known, to be famous. His name was supposed to get out, supposed to be whispered about in taverns, and supposed to be a story for the children. The tournament had been an almost amazing waste of time though. Osato was not a known name. His blade had not left its sheath. When he walked into a tavern it did not hush, and nobody recognized him as anything more than just another petty sell-sword wasting away his life by the end of his impressive sword and behind his fancy armor.
“Ridiculous,” he sighed. The people around him were so upbeat, had auras about them of greatness – or at least that they were getting somewhere with their life. The soulless man felt as drawn and defeated as he ever had. Being around so many people, so full of joy, was sickening. He had other fights, with other people, he only hoped they would not ignore their obligations to what was hailed as ‘the greatest tournament of Althanas’. “I have yet to see the famed noble of the north, or the lapdog of Radasanth.”
His words were spat angrily. The seed of sedition had been planted with his last round. He needed a fresh opponent, a fresh start, and a new perspective on the supposed ‘great warriors of Althanas’. What he needed was the next round, and quickly.
“Sir Lysser,” the mercenary did not even turn to look. The voice was strong, yet light. With it came the tell-tale rattle of the lightly armored monks. Osato had not even heard him approach. Had he been so lost in thought that he had let the obvious and the tangible slip from his perception? He worried about the answer. What would be the end if he was so caught up in himself that he could not see to the future, or the present? “Sir, the next round is beginning. Your room is being prepared,” the man said without letting Osato speak, “I was sent to give you warning and tell you that you shall be sparring in room nine sixty.”
“Fine,” he huffed dismissively. A growling thought came to word at the tip of his tongue, but he held it back. The monk was not at fault for the failure of his previous opponent. He had done nothing to cause the sell-sword to sit in the weather worn coliseum for an hour before it was announced he had been victorious. It was a moot victory, one that had filled the mercenary with disgust over mirth. “Nine sixty? I will start for it now…”
Out of Character:
Corvus had been trying to work out why he had bothered with this, fighting to prove ones strength is all well and good but when your opponent says urgent matters have arisen and honourably bows out well... it did bite. Biting, lovely thing to do at times to help ease stress, the Highlander exercising that habit by letting his fangs crunch down on a previously meat covered bone. They had ushered him here and dumped him in an empty chamber, asked to conjure up an enviroment for combat to commence.
Would have been better if I had some lumber and a saw than just thinking of it from thin air...
His opponent was human sized and that just felt a little... dull. He appreciated a good ruck, a balls out, fists up, brawl but wasn't a huge fan of clashing blades with other people, seemed a waste for his slammer, its surface wanted to be slick with dragon blood. Probably what drew him to clutch up such an odd trophy, he detested lifting a weapon from an opponent, it seemed like removing a blind mans crutch... a warrior should die with his blade strapped to his corpse. This blade however, had not deserved such a master, its owner was a slaver of the most basic mentality and no sword should have its legacy carved out in the hands of such a waste, this plain lump of steel deserved something far better or at the very least purposeful to be etched into its history.
He gripped the swords handle, it rested just above the back of his right and began to draw out the blade. He had sheathed the weapon in the space between his arm and buckler, got him odd looks but kept the weapon rather handy and even useful for defence. With a quick whip of the arm he had the weapon uncovered and gave it a twirl around with his fingers, staring at the scratched and marred flat of the sword. When he had first plucked it the thing was covered in all kinds of deocrations and fancy embroidery, had taken him only a few seconds and two swift chops to remove that waste of space and return the weapon to its purpose of a simple weapon.
Good heft to it
Heft was an odd word for swordsmen, it usually meant weight when applied to other things, but for him and the other party members of his monster hunting group it was a word of combined qualities, a heavy weapon was no use if not balanced and even the keenest blade with full balance would make little dent in a dragon with just a pound or two of weight behind it. But this had an average heft, it was an average blade but the one who held it was far above average and this could be enough to make such a weapon remarkable given enough time.
"Guess this'll 'aft ta do fer the barney... hmm..."
He had decided on an interior setting for this battle, with all the massive noble manors and derelict mansions left in the wilds, abandoned and infested a bit of practice in such a setting would be good. For that he had conjured up the image of a nobs home he had been able to wander around for a job and then let the sands of time grind and erode absolutely everything, not to mention chuck in the odd bit of crap and tat. Currently he stood in a massive ball room, stained and ruined tapestries doing a lousy job of blocking out the sunlight pouring in from shattered and grime smudged windows. The dance floors surface had been assaulted by all manner of shrubberies, abandoned nests of wood-land fauna and shattered tables, chairs and trophies that were once all shiny and designed for boasting if this fictious mansion had existed generations before.
Corvus had himself comfortably leaning against the only wall that hadn't received the personal touch by a cannon ball or some other large object that had torn great chunks from the building. His slammer locked in tight to the harness and clearly visible while he gave idle swings with the tooth-pick of a sword in comparison.
"Cannae 'elp bu' think I'd be response' bill fer this"
“What is this, some exhibition? Am I supposed to fight this beast, something like an intermission till the next round?” The sell-swords voice was acidic; he spat his words with upmost disgust. From sitting idle in a shattered coliseum to fighting some beast in a crumbling mansion, it was enough to infuriate the already angered young man. What he saw before him was something humanoid, to say the least, but had more of a wild animalistic quality about him. His hair was an uncontrolled mop of spikes and gray streaks, outrageously splayed atop his ugly face. Though he wore a semblance of clothing, a mere baggy shirt and rough burlap pants, he looked none the more civil. “At least he attempts to wear armor, though with the clots of hair that peer from behind and beneath everything he looks more ridiculous for the attempt.”
Osato hoped into the opening along the wall that he had been looking through. Carelessly a small stream of broken mortar and dust fell to the ground. They landed with a small puff of dust that covered an even smaller patch of wild grass. The grounds that had been given the two were a disgustingly dilapidated picture of a mansion long since lost to the crushing grasp of fate. Perhaps there was a story behind why the walls were broken or leaning inwards, why there was no roof covering most of the grounds, or how it had come to be. Perhaps this was not a mere illusion, but a dramatized representation of a place long since lost or forgotten.
Whatever it was, the sell-sword only let his concentration lie on it long enough to figure out what he needed to. At the center of what he could only assume had once been a grand hall, and his position a wall that had separated it from the rest of the house. At the far end of the room was a large table, streaked with grime and overgrown with plants. Around it were the remnants of at least five chairs, the rest having most likely been consumed by the insect population. Throughout the cracks and fissures that stretched across the floor were small plants, sprouting despite the disgusting setting. Amidst it all it seemed that nature had won over, reclaiming both the space that had once been taken, and recycling the wooden furniture once stolen.
“So be it then,” he muttered as he dropped from the rather large hole. His heavy leather boots caused a small cloud of dust to rise and become unhampered. It floated freely around him and caught the slightest of breezes as he moved. It had to have been years since the last person had fought much less moved through the ruined scene. Grimy green light struck the windows and flooded in, giving most of the room a sickly gleam. Osato rose from his crouched landing position and looked at his armor and clothes with a dismayed grimace.
While brushing himself off, knocking loose what dust had decided to collect on his pristine armor, he turned to his ‘opponent’. With less of a distance and a level line of sight, the man did not look half bad. He seemed weak, undernourished, and a bit confused, but he definitely looked mostly human. Whatever he had said came out more of a growl than anything, an amalgamation of the common tongue and its own guttural language – or at least the mercenary assumed as much. Osato was far from interested.
“Greetings,” he called with an obviously forced smile and a small cough. Inhaling the dingy, stale air had placed a taste on his delicate palate that was far from what he was expecting. He spat out as much of the flavor at once before continuing. “I do hope you at least comprehend, much less speak common. I would certainly hate for the monks and this bloody tournament to have tossed me into a match where I could not speak or understand my opponent.” Osato was not normally so insulting, but he was unsure what to make of the supposed round he was in…
“You wouldn’t even know if this is the next round in this ‘tournament of legends’? Would you? I may have entered the wrong room entirely.” As he spoke he unsnapped the leather bands that restricted his sword, and untwisted the small hook that held his crossbows in place on his belt. If the thing did not respond and attacked instead, he would be ready for it. And with the distance between the two, he’d easily be able to shoot two quick bolts inaccurately, or a single one and rely on his speed to dodge instead of a drawn blade…
That was it?... he approaches that slowly, wrinkles his nose on those foppish features and brings out lines of such a dull nature?... wheres the aloof boasting, the hot-blooded yells of victory, instead I'm stuck with a twat that gives me the shudders
Was a very annoying thing to be disappointed with an opponent, challenge or not in skill there certainly wouldn't be any mutual respect for someone who couldn't grasp the idea of demi-humans, or furries as the nickname went.
Personally I feel I'm more of a fuzzy than furry, ah well
The sound of unfettered implements of death did not go unnoticed by Corvus, sizing up with his opponent and feeling, well less than motivated to fight... plenty of motivation to rip his head off sure, but no motivation for a proper duel of combative flair. Trying to recall even a scrap of what the fop stated in his pathetically acidic tone the Highlander gave a shove with his right foot, pushing off the wall and began his walk towards the opponent, rolling the broad-sword handle gripped in his palm, made a weird sound when rattling against the jewel in his glove.
"Well lets see 'ere... this is t'second round, simply asking someone woulda' offered up tha' juicy bit of information, me names Corvus an' you might as well give up your own, make it all friendly an' professional"
Plus no doubt he loves every possible syllable of the word
Still approaching, it was a nice feeling, cold hard chunks of stone... plastering dust giving an attempt at coating the soles of his well travelled feet, then onto the softness of a wildly grown patch of weeds, grass and even a single dandilion. Was a shame he couldn't visit this vision on nobles out there in the home-land, be a nice wake-up call perhaps to let them realise for all their goals, ambitions and dealings nothing would save them from the ravages of time. This huge imaginary mansion was completely ruined and not a name, nor crest, nor title remained to give off any form of ownership.
Hmm back to the opponent I guess
His armouring was pretty light, someone that liked to jump about rather than trade blows, bit of an odd idea to use crossbows then, sure you get a pre-arranged power for the shot but they were right bastards to reload. He had already gotten a weird feeling from the challengers scent but his personality was grating enough without having to worry about feeling a detestment just from his species. Really Corvus didn't have much to look at with his opponent, he just seemed like a lot of other fair-faced warriors that spent more time confusing the hell out of tavern wenches and farmers daughters before slipping off into the night for his next meagre accomplishment to boast about.
A quick flick and the broad-sword sailed from one hand to the other, Corvus deciding to bring his left hand, the dominant one by far up to grip the iron handle of the over-sized sword. Still walking closer to his opponent, no need to break into a run or such until the adrenaline starts pumping.
Bide a wee bit boyo, just bide a wee bit
“The name is Osato, mercenary for hire,” Osato shook his head despite himself. He had grown so used to giving his name and a title, but mercenary for hire was hardly a title he would with to claim in such a situation. If he was to be known, he wanted to be known for who he was. He wanted his name to be recognized, well known, but would get nowhere if everyone assumed he was nothing more than a pretty face. “And if this is indeed the second round than I am honored to have you as an opponent. Let us be on with it then.”
The mercenary removed his sword, letting the crossbows be. They were to much a risk. The blade was pristine, unscathed steel. It glimmered gently in the grim light, a symbol of forgotten greatness in a place of rot and deterioration. He pulled the blade before him, wanting to look at it one last time before he finally put it into action. It was a long blade, a full thirty four inches, double sided, and straight. The base of the blade was the most unique point, four inches wide and three inches thick. It tapered down to a thinner blade as it moved towards the point, becoming an average blade after four inches from the point.
His firm leather gloves tightened around the five inch leather bound handle. It would be good to finally put his blade to use. His previous one, the black wavy blade, had been put through quite a bit since he had left his island home and explored Scara Brae.
Osato planted his feet, sliding one around in a close arch. The plants at his feet were torn apart easily with the movement, the grime on the ground parted, as did the dirt and dust. He felt the heavy muscles of his leg tense, as did his entire body. Underneath it all, he was calm though. Deep, void-like eyes drew away from the blade, which fell slowly to his side, and back to his opponent. He gave Corvus a wicked grin and began to move.
Instead of taking a slow gait and a cautious attack, he charged headlong towards his opponent. The blade flashed across him, raised high. He took a large first step, pushing off his back leg, and jolted himself towards the wild man. The blade fell quickly, dropping from the upright position towards the man’s chest. The arching blade meant little, he knew, but it would test the opponents speed and dexterity… of which Osato assumed he had much of.
Is there two voices in this guys mind?... one moment hes spitting words that would melt through steel, the next emotion is clipped from his words and speaking to an equal, rather... curious, oh well
Watching his opponent come towards him Corvus stopped his approach, a little judge of ability it seemed, best act a bit weaker and get a better grasp of what kind of opponent this guy was. Playing the act quite well the Highlanders shielded arm shot up and then started twitching its position up and down, before taking the blow, letting his arm be bent by the weight of the blow... a little more, then a little more, before starting to push back. Honesty was something he felt was very important for combat, but it never hurt to play the fool now and then, plus Corvus was not a convential fighter if he could help it. With the blade grinding against the copper buckler Corvus gave a limited push with his arm just as his foot lashed out, well sortof... more swept up would be the correct term, sailing towards his opponents breeding haven.
He'll dodge this, try to flick the blade to my foot then probably do a quick spin and cut me from the left... seems a reasonable set of actions, hes not too bad, bad at acting though, sword arms strong though and certainly light on his pads... hmm
Oh to be sure his unenchanted glove was tight to his palm and the bindings holding the buckler around his arm was being a right bitch by catching selective portions of his fur on contact, but all that mattered to Corvus was the actual action of his opponents and himself, rather than how his apparel was faring in a fight.
Alright. You guys didn't get remotely close to a conclusion for this battle, so I'll just throw out some comments for you to digest as you please.
Overall, I felt that Osato had a clear upper hand in this battle. Corvus, your writing is very hard to read at times. It's written like a train of thought, complete with absence of punctuation. Train-of-thought writing is good - it has life, and it has flavor - but remember to adhere to the rules of grammar while doing this. It is possible.
That being said, I think Osato was generally much more descriptive and eloquent in his posts. If I formed a picture in my mind out of what Corvus wrote and what Osato wrote, Osato's rendition would have been much more complete. I especially like that he made more of an effort to touch all of the senses - very few people remember 'taste.'
All of this taken into account, I believe that Osato wins the round despite his flaky activity in this thread and advances to Round 3.
Osato gains 250 EXP.
Corvus MacCallum gains 50 EXP.
EXP added! Osato levels up (finally)!