Round 1: Aliander Vs Zelrius

Round starts May 3rd, 12:01 AM CST. Battle of the new bloods! Good Luck!

The passage to the first round was long, dark and the sand under his feet reeked of old blood. Fifty feet away, a light promised the end of the challenger's tunnel. His waist was light with his missing weapons and the ground sucked heavily at his boots as it shifted and adjusted itself beneath their weight.

This was pure egotism. Alliander didn't need to enter a combat ring let along a tournament for which the prize was fame, or wealth. Time had been trudging along at a very slow pace and his leads for lost knowledge were few and far between. So without much practice in recent weeks it was possible he was getting rusty, a thought which worried him down to the core. Surely a couple of rounds in a rather prestigious tournament promised to put some life back into the young man's fighting step.

At the end of the entrance tunnel, his way was blocked by a gate of iron, two inches thick, through which he saw the arena proper. A huge circular arena of sand lay within stone walls, ten foot high. Open to the crisp blue sky and completely empty, aside from a single weapon rack against the western wall stacked with gleaming weapons of polished steel of every conceivable variety. Across the sand pit, behind an iron gate identical to his own, Alliander saw a figure come up to the sunlight within his own enterance. His opponent, he assumed. They both saw the rack of weapons, both knew that whoever got to it first would have a clear and possible short advantage over the other. He couldn't run in this sand, with this footwear and so, he bent down and began untying the leather boots. Releasing his feet to the midday sun.

With an unheard command, the gates began to screech open against the stone, vanishing into the rock above as Alliander's bare toes curled into the sand.

The sand and the cheering was exactly how Zelrius had hoped it would be. The gates and land reeked of blood and iron, the scent filling Zelrius's nostrils more than happily. This was it, what Zelrius believed he was born for: Fighting, and glory. And what better place to obtain those two things then in the Serenti. This was something of a spectacle, it would seem. The people gathered, Though less than in the other fights as Zelrius could tell, both the combatants were under-known and valued. That was fine by Lord Blackfyre, he cared not the number of people that saw him fight, only cared if those that viewed to battle enjoyed it greatly.

The narcissism clearly evident on the boy's smiled and in his stroll to the gates. Things to notice right away: No weapons were already placed on either Combatant. No Armor was either. Nope, the two were bare with the exception of whatever clothes it was the fighters so happened to bring. Zelrius himself was adorned in his loose silk clothing, the pants tied around his waste using a half string half belt thing. and the shirt though fitting nicely, still flailed a waved a bit in the wind at the area under the armpits and below the neck. These were decided because Zelrius thought it best to have light wieght mobility, in which he had always valued over strength. As it seemed today, that was his advantage. The weapon rack in the middle held promise, and the boy eyed it long and hard, eventually landing on a nice rusted Tulwar. Grinning, Zelrius stooped down on all fours, posed to bolt off the moment the gates opened.

Not much time passed between his bending down and Iron gates striking the stone walls they were held in by, making a loud screech, the type that would split heads if used as a weapon and unexpected. With that, Zelrius used his long trained agility and speed, running out into the great cicular arena and straight toward the center, grabbing his weapon of choice, then quickly kicking the weapon rack over, hoping to make his opponents life as hard as he possibly could.

The sand was in his way, slowing him down as feet kicked against it. Absorbing his momentum, the sand dragged him towards defeat. A level playing field however, or so he had hoped but as Alliander approached the half way point to the weapons rack, he was dis-encouraged by the very real fact that his opponent, Practically a boy was already drawing a long rusted blade which curved menacingly in the pulsing sun. Raising it to a cheering crowd before turning and kicking the entire rack into the sand. Alliander stopped, appalled at the brazen lack of sportsmanship shown in that one, simple act.

"Pizda." He spat, under his quickening breath.

A man of few words. Instead he remained where he stood, with the sun rising higher at his back. The shadow from his feet shrinking rapidly.

With about a quarter of the arena still between them, Alliander put aside the notion of gaining a weapon of steel, the new swordsman now between him and the grounded weapons simply made surviving the task itself, dubious at best and impossible at worst. They were however clothed simply, expected to arm themselves within the arena. Coming to blows over weapons always acts as a crowd-pleaser. Bloody your own knuckles in the fight. An enlightened revelation. In short: screw that.

The crowd was a rabble. Too cheap to watch anyone well known get their block knocked off. They were looking for excitement and some flash. Not intricate footwork and strategy.

He had flash.

Rotating his feet, Aliander grounded himself. Twisting his feet into the sand until it covered them up to the ankles. Without a sword to act as a directional lightning rod he instead used the middle and fore-finger on his right hand. Bringing it first close to the body, he blocked a channel of qi which forced it to build in the top of his right arm by the shoulder. Felt the pressure build as it stretched out with his palm to the air. Pointing the fingers, his lightning rod to the approaching target. His qi built within that fraction of a second before his brain felt like it was on fire, starved of something which it hadn't realised it needed and Aliander twisted his hand counterclockwise. Palm down the energy had an escape, a direction. Purpose. The lightning which leaped forward was aimed for the heart. Unchained in the knowledge that the fighters here were temporarily immortal in the sense that they would be brought back Alliander still didn't agree with causing un-necessary pain.

Ali could burn through leather. Zelrius' fancy shirt wouldn't pose trouble.

Thread is Closed. Aliander advances.

Zelrius is disqualified due to inactivity.

Since this thread did not reach ten posts, Aliander advances because he was more active.

Good luck in round 2!