1 v 1: Respice Finem v The Red Hand

[Call me J]

This battle will end in two weeks. Best of luck to both competitors.

[Sorahn]

The dark sub-chambers of the coliseum were filled with the whirring sounds of blades slicing through the air. Each of the dank stone walls echoed back the melodic song of death and destruction happily sung by the metal so masterfully formed for that exact purpose. The razor sharp edges flew with crushing speed and deadly precision, tearing their mythical targets asunder with little effort.

Sorahn grunted as he brought the spear around again. Each movement of his body was a perfectly executed choreography of muscles and joints, dancing in time to the melody of the blades. Again he sliced, and again the spear sung its chorus of forthcoming pain, driven by the rhythm of contracting muscles to create a beautiful symphony of murderous power.

“Sorahn…”

Instantly he stopped, leaving the blades suspended in the air, still ringing. He turned to face the source of the voice: his beautiful mate, Rehnahlia. He didn’t respond, but instead took a moment to notice how beautiful she looked even in the dim light of these practice chambers. She had dressed up to come watch the match, wearing a fine maroon dress that he didn’t know she had.

“It’s time for you to go. The battle will start soon.” She said softly, trying to wear an expression of encouragement, but unable to hide her worry. The result was a sort of weak smile that Sorahn thought looked adorable. He ran his hand through her curly red hair and pulled her close.

“I’ll be fine.” He whispered to her, and then kissed her cheek. Her smile strengthened, and with just a nod, she turned to make her way to her seat.

The truth was he knew nothing of the sort. He learned quickly through experience that there is no such thing as an easy battle. Every opponent is unpredictable, and going into battle with overconfidence is an easy way to get killed. Both he and Rehnahlia knew how important this battle was. In this tournament, he represented not only himself, but his clan, something which meant infinitely more to him. Because of this, he was more than a little nervous.

But it was also this fact that drove him. He had a much more important purpose, and a much greater resolve to accomplish his goals. This was why he spent time in the chambers below, practicing and preparing for battle. And it would be this reason, this intense desire to represent his beloved clan with honor, that would lead him to victory.

He made his way to the main gates, trying to force any thoughts of failure from his head. As he walked, his footsteps echoed against the stone hallways. Above he could hear the din of throngs of spectators assembling to watch the tournament, eager to satiate their bloodlust and desire for violent entertainment. He had a feeling they would not be disappointed.

Finally he approached the gate and stopped. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. For the Red Hand… Suddenly, the gates swung open and he stepped calmly into the arena. Instantly the crowd erupted. Many cheered and many booed, but everyone made noise, shaking the arena.

Sorahn was overwhelmed with just how big the coliseum was. It was a separate area within the Citadel for special events, capable of seating many thousands who wished to watch important battles. The entire structure was made of stone, supported by massive columns and arches. The stands sat elevated about fifteen feet above the arena proper, to ensure the safety of the audience, as well as eliminate the chance of escape for the combatants.

The arena itself was very large. It consisted of a circle approximately 50 yards in diameter. Inside were many odd wooden structures including poles and platforms and ladders to ensure the battles remained interesting.

Sorahn’s feet crunched on the dirt floor as he stepped inside. The gates swung shut with a clang behind him as a blatant reminder that this battle would occur whether he wanted it to or not. He simply stood still, patiently waiting for his opponent, while his tail swished idly behind him. All around him were chants and cheers from the rabid audience, and he knew that somewhere in that mass of people sat Rehnahlia, his mate. This fact alone brought him all the comfort he needed.

[Ave Versus Christus]

Candy; it was the sweetest of all the bounty Althanas had to offer, and sweeter still when swiped from the stands of unsuspecting vendors. The crowds in the Citadel halls assured an easy getaway should the crime be discovered prematurely, and the noise was more than enough to muffle the cries of upset shopkeeps.

The child padded through the crowd with grace and caution, careful not to get trampled by the many folk who dwarfed him so completely. His pockets rattled with the sound of misbegotten goods and his hands held firmly to the bear he so loved. Anticipation swelled within him, forcing his small heart to beat at hummingbird speeds. He was excited, and why wouldn't he be? Everyone that walked the halls was there to see him, all the commotion was for him.

He would fight in the Citadel in front of hundreds whose foaming mouths required the spilling of blood to wet their sick appetites. It made the boy giddy to think that killing would please the people so completely.

As his squeaking shoes screeched to a halt outside the entry gate, he could only stare in aw at the sheer majesty of it's craftsmanship. Beneath the black mask that covered his face, warm breath became quickened as fear and happiness swelled into a catharsis of sheer emotion pouring uncontrollably from his shaking form.

"What am I doing?" It was a moment's pause that seemed almost biblical in scope and philosophical in detail. "Is Sine Nomine worth this much?" Like cold feet before a wedding ceremony, it was a passing glimmer of uncertainty. After all, he had only joined Sine Nomine a week ago. The mysterious cult allured him ever since he managed to rescue the reclusive blind leader from a band of brigands. In him, Khristos saw a certain pragmatic energy and an instant bond. Conversely, the mysterious leader, Light, saw in the child a purpose; a necessary evil.

With a hushed sigh, Khristos pushed all doubt from his mind. He knew this fight wasn't just for Sine Nomine; the joy of killing was reason enough. Cheerful vigor filled his small limbs as he waved his hands just as the monks had shown him earlier. The gates erupted in a fury of movement as chains rattled and gears turned; a cavalcade of metal screaming for oil. Finally, the oaken doors were fully opened. He could hear the cheers from the crowd. He could feel their hot breath streaming from their mouths and onto the area floor. The stifling humidity hit him at once, but he could delay his entrance no longer. He passed through the doorway and into the light of the arena for all to see.

The crowds quieted themselves quickly as murmurs ripped through their ranks. A child had appeared in place of a warrior. Had Khristos been listening, he might have heard the snickers and jeers. He might have even heard the gates slam tightly behind him. But his wide blue eyes caught sight of something far more alluring.

"A playground!" He giggled when he saw what his arena would be. Wooden structures and bound ropes, even a ladder or two. The sand on the ground added to the grit and dust that blanketed several of the more decaying wooden pieces. So enthralled was he at the idea of playing on the platforms and poles, that he had completely forgotten the idea of the fight. Had he not been wearing a mask, all would have see the chipper grin the crossed his devilish face

[Sorahn]

((Sorry for the delay. Busy weekend.))

Sorahn stood perfectly still, save for his ever swaying tail, as the murmurs of the crowd began to grow louder with collective anticipation. His statuesque form represented a pillar of the Red Hand; the proverbial fearless leader, standing proudly in the face of danger for the sake of his tribe and his followers. Sorahn surely wasn’t perfect; each passing day reminded him of that. But he was devoted and determined, and he would rather die than dishonor his name or the name of his clan. Such was the Ranoan way, and Ranoan traditions were beyond sacred to him.

Suddenly the creaks and clangs of the gates directly facing Sorahn echoed throughout the coliseum, only to be quickly drowned out by the thunderous roar of the masses eager to lay eyes on the pivotal second component of their entertainment. Sorahn’s sharp eyes narrowed as the focused on the far side of the arena, squinting against the sun to better make out any features. Finally his opponent emerged from the shadows, prompting an odd hush to fall over the crowds.

Is this some kind of a sick joke?

Sorahn was not amused. His battle hardened eyes now lay upon a small child, no older than four years, who wandered into the arena. He glanced up at the crowd, trying to find some match officials, expecting to see a worried mother run out of the crowd to gather up her young son and escort him to safety with a firm reprimand for running off. Instead, the crowed looked just as confused as he did, save for the extremely disturbing onlookers wearing an expression of excitement at seeing a warrior slaughter a small boy.

Sorahn’s face twisted to disgust as he turned back to his so-called “opponent” just in time to see the gates slam shut behind him, indicating that this was no mistake.

I can’t fight a small, defenseless child. It would be nothing less than murder. There could be no honor in such a battle.

He quickly examined the boy’s small features. The child couldn’t be any taller than his own hip, and wore an expression of excitement on his half-covered face.

Sorahn was infuriated. This was sheer mockery, and he felt like a fool, as if the whole thing had been designed for the amusement of the crowd at his expense. His reputation would never be the same. He could no longer be known as a fierce tribal leader, but rather as the odd creature that was pitted against a child.

Rage bubbled up inside him, along with the frustration of being unable to direct it at any one specific person. When he found out who dared make a fool out of him, he would ensure they regretted that decision.

As for the battle at hand, there was no way he would injure this innocent boy. However, with the gates locked tightly, he had no available method of escape. He clenched his teeth at the embarrassment of it all.

“I refuse to fight a child.” He announced plainly, and instantly the sinister black spear disappeared from his hand. The crowd erupted in a distorted mixture of frustration and approval. He folded his arms across his chest and simply waited, desperately trying to contain his rage and humiliation.

I will not be mocked.

[Ave Versus Christus]

Okay, so it's not a good enough motivator.

An anger rose inside the boy, a rage so fierce that boiling blood coursed through his veins and reddened his skin to the tint of a tomato. His wide eyed stare narrowed into a sharpened point that fixated on the creature that offended him so completely. The crowd's murmurs were now part of the backdrop the child ignored as he focused himself in sheer aggravation.

The spectator's warm breath suddenly felt very cold, and in that instant Khristos calmed himself by merely blinking. There was no reason to be upset. Beneath the seams of his black mask, a mischievous grin began to form. A perfect opportunity had been dealt to him in the match. Not only was his foe all but giving up, but he had dissipated his weapon and left his guard completely open. The sounds of shuffling masses en route to all the exits further set the stage for an unlikely comeback by the boy.

Slowly, methodically, he strode over to the "playground equipment" he had been so engrossed in moments ago. He climbed, with some difficulty, the smallest platform available that still gave him a direct and unobstructed view to his adversary. His blue-puddle eyes stared off into the distance at the creature he was to fight, almost right past him to the wooden gate. With the deepest breath his young lungs could muster, he calmed his body further until every muscle felt as if it were never used.

He could feel it, a small piece of splintered wood right near his right foot. Focusing, he mustered his inhuman ability at psychokinesis, broke the wood from the platform, and flung it at his enemy all without a single gesture. The wood was neither too sharp nor too fast, but it was heavy enough to still hurt like hell and perhaps, even, draw blood.

A light dizzy spell came over the child as his footing wavered. But the crowds stopped leaving then, and a hushed quiet came over them.

[Sorahn]

Sorahn was growing extremely impatient with the match officials for not opening the gate. The massive crowd, once consumed by their lust for blood, now reverted back to a bored and frustrated mob. Many people began leaving their seats, assuming the match was over and hoping their money would get refunded.

The Ranoan paid almost no heed to the small boy who was climbing atop the platform, and instead searched for any sign that this was a mistake. However the gates remained shut and no officials emerged from the throngs of people. A spark of doubt began to form in his mind. A nagging uneasiness forcing him to consider the possibility that this really was his opponent. No. That would be ridiculous.

Suddenly he heard a loud crack. Instantly he turned the boy, just in time to see a large chunk of wood flying toward him. Reacting purely on instinct, he dove to the right. But he knew what would happen. He was caught totally off guard and unprepared, so he knew that he couldn’t move fast enough.

Searing pain exploded in his left arm, rushing up to his brain like a wildfire. He winced as he landed with a thud on his right side, sliding about a foot in the soft dirt before stopping. As the cloud of dust settled around him, he looked down to his wounded arm. Across his bicep was a half-inch deep gash, along with several other scratches around it, from where the splintered wood tore his flesh. He felt a soft warmth as his hot blood began to slowly run down his arm.

He quickly looked back toward the boy. Surely this small child could not have broken off this piece of wood and thrown it at him with such force. There had to be something else beneath the surface; some special powers he wasn’t aware of. Either way, it was becoming clear that this child really was his opponent.

Then may this wound serve as a lesson to me never to underestimate an enemy, no matter how small.

Glancing down to his wounded arm, he could tell that the wound was not major. The blood flowed slowly, posing no real threat to his wellbeing, other than pain. Slowly, he rose to his feet, shaking off the dust marring his snow white fur, and looked to his small opponent.

Now he had a moral dilemma. He had no idea what this child was capable of, but it was not so far fetched to think that he might not survive this battle. But how could he kill a young boy? He wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. On the other hand, he must achieve victory and glory for his clan. But what glory was there in slaughtering a child?

He looked back to the crowd. All had returned to their seats, now watching with rapt fascination at what the warrior would do now, faced with the choice of attacking an innocent, or losing the battle. The air was eerily silent as they waited on his choice.

I’ll have to try and disable him. Maybe I can attain a decisive victory without injuring him too badly. But I don’t even know what he’s capable of. If worse comes to worse… He didn’t even want to think about what he would do, but deep in his mind he knew what he would have to do.

He took a long, deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“Ronah, please forgive me.”

Suddenly he flicked his wrist, and an explosive shockwave emitted from him, shaking the ground and kicking up a large dust cloud. He immediately took off in a run toward the platform as he watched it shake violently from the force, and leapt up onto it with the grace and agility he was known for. He desperately hoped he hadn’t injured the boy badly, but the doubt in his mind wondered if he had hurt the boy at all. Either way, he wanted to subdue him and end this so-called “battle” quickly.

The spectators felt the vibration of the shockwave which had all but dissipated by the time it reached them. Even still, it was enough to cause an eruption of cheers. It seemed they would be getting their show after all.

[Christoph]

This battle was incomplete. Sorahn wins by default.

The match goes to the Red hand.