Final Fite I: A Floaty Fite

[Hailwing Of The Citadel]

Success!

Hailwing's capable fist found John's jaw, driving his head to the side. The massive human's response, to step back, told the winged warrior that he'd damaged the man. Hailwing skidded to a stop, his feet sliding across the grassy ground as he watched John seemingly fall to his knees in agony; payback had been given.

But John was not hurt at all, in the end, but had cleverly placed himself in an ingenious tactical position. Using his greater weight and the incredible flexibility of his armor, the man was tilting the platform backward - forward, to Hailwing.

The statue-come-to-life hadn't fully grasped what this platform was when first accessing it. John's movement and positioning had kept it as secret as possible, and Hailwing had been too consumed with the fight to consider the movement of the ground. "Well played!" he called.

He knelt and got as low to the ground as possible, digging his heels and trying to grind his fingertips into the soil. This worked, but only briefly. The platform turned more and more vertically, and his hands tore out chunks of dirt, no longer able to hold.

John was still in front of him, anchored to the island. An idea formed in Hailwing's head, and he did not see an alternative.

He pressed forward and dove down, aiming to crash into John and drive both of them off of the platform.

[redford]

John saw the wheels turning in the automaton's mind, realizing quickly what he had planned. He had hoped to drive his opponent off of the platform, but as he moved to the side, John realized that he intended to knock them both off. John looked around quickly as the automaton's purchase on the grass waned. Behind him lay another platform, perhaps close enough to leap to, perhaps not.

At this point it did not matter. He could not wait until the last second, or the platform would be out of reach, he needed to leap now.

He hoped that it would be too late for his opponent, though he did have a certain measure of respect for him. Most would be quick to lose or surrender after losing a weapon such as the glaive. Its length and range required a unique skill set, and usually obtaining that skill meant losing others. John dug his toes into the earth, finding a bit of purchase as he retracted his tendrils, shifting the armor on his left hand into a set of long hooks, and leapt.

It looked for a moment that the platform was farther away than he initially thought.

But, John's arm yanked taut, pulling the two halves of his collarbone apart, eliciting a grunt of pain from him as he began to lift himself to the surface of the arena. Hopefully his opponent would be unable to follow.

[Hailwing Of The Citadel]

John reacted quickly, deciphering Hailwing's plan before it could take shape.

The warrior was almost horizontal, his head facing the edge of the slanted platform. He had to adjust quickly, dropping his arms and legs and dragging them against the earth. As John leaped, the platform began to tilt back, evening out a little bit more so that Hailwing could land and regain his balance. He snarled and prepared himself for a second leap, jumping and extending his arms as far as they would go.

He didn't look down. If he had, he would have seen blue waters at least two miles below, dotted with small islands similar to the platforms roaming the skies. Between the ocean and the battleground, fluffy clouds drifted by with the wind.

Hailwing didn't have enough speed and jumping power, and he knew he could not make the platform. John was too far away to latch onto, and the meager wings on Hailwing's back could not give him lift - could not even make him glide.

It hovered above him, jagged rocks forming a cliff-like texture underneath the surface. He reached for it, his hands finding creases in the stone; he held on with all his might as his body swung forward with the momentum of his jump. He dangled precariously, arms taut with muscle and his fingers lodged in. Hailwing prayed this platform would not crumble away like the first.

Gasping, Hailwing reached up with his left to find a higher spot to grab. He pulled up and threw his right hand behind a large rock, but it fell away as he put pressure on it, leaving him swinging from just his left arm. Too determined to succumb, he tried again and again under he was at the lip of the platform. He threw his left arm over and onto to the surface, where it splashed into something liquid.

No time to consider it, Hailwing brought his other arm over and then slid on top of the isle. He looked at John, and then at the surface below - it looked like tar. Thick, black, sticky grime covered the entirety of this plateau.

Hailwing rose to his feet, the majority of his body covered in the clinging liquid. He'd lost one of his cloth shoes, but barely noticed.

[redford]

A spiked pick formed at the end of John's right fist and he jammed it into the earth of the platform, lifting himself and reducing the strain on his broken shoulder. The wind gusted again and, despite attempting to resist the urge, looked down. It was an impossible height, and between patched clouds a mile below he saw an expanse of blue dotted with green islands, rimmed with tawny sands. John felt the fear rise within him, the worry that his grip would fail and the thought of impacting the ground from that height. It would do him no good to fear. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly as he pulled up again, a spike forming at his toe to help him climb. He brought his torso above the edge and felt his fingers sink into what felt like thick mud. The rest of him followed and John righted himself, feeling his feet sink a few inches into the tarlike substance that coated the arena. It smelled of boiling oil, the aroma strengthened by their disturbance of the surface. The automaton was proving quite the nuisance, and had ascended the thing faster than he had, taking a position several paces away.

John thought for a moment, and a plan floated to the surface of his mind. A couple of his teachers had seen his size as an advantage, rather than a quality that just made him a bigger target, and had taught him how to use it.

"You are huge, John, and you need to use that. Be immovable, unchangeable, unstoppable."

John smirked a little, and lifted his right leg up through the sticky mire, slamming it down again, extending a spike several inches down from where the bottom of his foot was already buried in the muck, forcing tendrils into the ground. His left leg followed, setting him down in a wide stance, his back to the edge of the platform. He knocked his forearms together with a clang, muffled a little by the sticky coating. He closed his hands into fists, steadying his breathing. His shoulder hurt and his face ached, but it wasn't something debilitating at this point. He steadied his breathing a little, bending his knees.

His opponent would have to work hard at beating John here, where speed meant a little less.

[Hailwing Of The Citadel]

He and John squared off within the muck, their feet partially submerged and each fighter at least half-covered with grime. Hailwing's forehead had developed a swollen globe the size of a man's fist, large enough that he could see it when looking up.

Try as he might to resist doing so, the warrior was panting. His lungs burned, his belly rushed in and out regardless of how he tried to control his breathing. He'd been pressed, and the adreneline that'd allowed him to climb onto the platform was wearing off. Without his glaive, he had to contend with armored John using his bare legs and arms, save for his vambrace which was only capable of dealing a small amount of damage.

Not for the first time in the battle, Hailwing knew he was outmatched. But he had died a hundred deaths against opponents, those who either overestimated the mighty-looking statue or did not know their own determination. That was his purpose, after all, to push budding adventurers and warriors into realizing their potential. So many times had a desperate fighter overcome him when he was the better man. Hailwing had learned from those experiences, and he needed to adopt that same desperation if he were to push John, in return.

So he charged once more, exhausted though he was, his feet jumping in and out of the tar as it tried to keep him anchored. He bent down and ran his hand through the oozy substance, taking a handful and lobbing it at John, trying to hit him in the face to blind or distract him. He did this with every second step, throwing four handfuls of it.

But on that fourth and final attempt, Hailwing summoned his final ball of ice from below the surface, creating the heavy projectile but hiding it in a layer of tar as his hand came back up. This he was sure to aim perfectly, trying to catch John by surprise.

If all went according to plan, he would then crash into the human with all the strength he could muster, and attempt to drive John, or both of them, off of the side of the platform.

[redford]

John saw him drag his fingers through the tar, and for a moment wondered what he was doing before a ball of tar flew through the air, sailing just to the side of John as he leaned to the side. The second came, which he dodged easily as well. The third caught him off guard though, and as he ducked a bit under it, the fourth was waiting for him. John tried to shift, but it was too quick and it struck his injured shoulder with much more force than a simple tar ball could. It sent a spike of pain up to his injured collarbone, eliciting a faint grunt and a flinch from John. As he brought himself up though, his opponent was far closer than John anticipated, leaning his shoulder down. John tried to bring an arm down to drive him to the earth, but John was already hit and leaning back.

His midsection leaned back, and John attempted to correct himself, but his feet were rooted in place and there was extra weight on him now. He was going down and over, and there was no stopping that.

But maybe it wouldn't be just him that went over.

John's eyes narrowed as his front foot disengaged from the muck, and grabbed the golem's arm in a viselike grip with his left hand. It was likely that he could break the arm, but that was not his intent. If John was going to lose, he wasn't going to be the only one. His fingers came around and touched at the inside of his grip, and John shifted his armor to create a ring of metal, shackling them together. Now that they were both together, and John was going over anyway, he smiled a little. He pushed mightily off the ledge with his foot, throwing them both off the edge.

[Hailwing Of The Citadel]

Hailwing's success brought grim satisfaction. The deceptive ball of ice crashed into John's shoulder with a satisfying crack, and Hailwing gained a bit of speed at that, refusing to second guess his decision.

He rammed into John with all speed, the humanlike opponent nearly swallowing him up with his grand, powerful form. Still, the momentum seemed to do the trick, and the Citadel's warrior pressed on after their initial impact. He dug his feet into the sludge and tried to gain a foothold, any type of advantage, after the impact.

He was too determined to discern John's next move. Hailwing was gripped with a hand like iron, and a moment later, his arm was encased with the actual metal. Escape was not possible, but the work had been done. He tried in vain to shift his weight and tear away, but John was pitching away and the warrior was dragged after him, nearly flipping over as the duo cleared the side of the platform and flew into the sky to fall like heavy stones.

The suspended islands falling away above them, the two tumbled through a cloud and toward the vast waters below. Hailwing could not get away, tethered to John by armor which he could not hope to break.

But it wasn't over, he knew. He felt.

Though they cascaded through the blue, Hailwing reeled back and drove his free arm forward, trying to drive the point of his elbow into John's eye.

[redford]

John expected that the battle would end as they both fell, tumbling and turning through the air. The world would melt around them like watercolor and they would return to the real world.

But this was not so.

They fell, still gathering speed. Wind whipped around him in a roar as they plunged downwards, and John glimpsed the ground every once in a while as the earth spun around them. The ground seemed no closer now than a few seconds ago, suggesting an impossibly large height. The fall would kill them both anyway. John's mind raced to a conclusion. There was only one way for him to win in a situation such as this.

He had to kill the automaton before they hit the ground.

As if to punctuate his realization, a solid elbow crashed into his face. John felt and heard a crack at his nose, and brought his right hand up to block a subsequent hit. Blood flowed upwards as they fell, smearing his face with the stuff. His opponent had surprised him, but they were still connected, and John pulled with his right arm, tugging on the ring that secured him to his opponent, and aimed to close his hand around its neck.

[Hailwing Of The Citadel]

Hailwing relished the blow as it landed, his elbow driven forth with maximum force, feeling lighter with the rush of wind behind it. John was impossibly resilient, the Citadel guardian knew, but the duty to fulfill his purpose was built deeply into him. He saw the splatter of blood turn to distant droplets as they fell away, and tried another. The man's hand wrapped around his elbow as if it were a child's ball, halting it easily.

There was no resisting the man's superior strength as he pulled Hailwing close, and the sudden, jerking movement caught him be surprise and left him defenseless. John's hand wrapped around his neck easily, squeezing with force Hailwing had never experienced before.

Hailwing, normally a composed and measured fighter even in the worst of times, flailed like an animal trapped in a corner. He hammered against John's arm and fingers, trying to pry them off, trying to use his vambrace to swat John away, but without a weapon or something besides the air to work with, there was little hope.

The wind buffeted them, repeatedly catching Hailwing's wings at awkward angles and pushing him this way or that, keeping him off balance and doing nothing to help him stay aware. But the desire to survive and win, to drive John to his limit despite their impending doom, burned inside of him.

One of John's arms was holding him close through the armor, the other was tight on Hailwing's throat. With blackness crawling in from the outer limits of his vision and his chest burning for air, Hailwing reached over and ripped the vambrace off of his forearm, his fingers gripping the straps with desperate power to keep it from flying away.

The leather snapped out of place and Hailwing held the defensive plate in his hand. Knowing he had to be quick, he gripped the back end of the sleeve in both hands and drove it, as hard as he could possibly manage, towards John's nose. The iron plate rushed toward the broken nose of Hailwing's opponent in a desperate attempt to separate them before they met their fate.

[redford]

John was too focused on the hand at his opponent's throat to do anything more than tilt his head as the piece of armor struck him. A sharp edge struck the side of his skull to the bone, dragging a vicious gash along the side of his head.

John snapped his head to the side, bringing up a hand to cover the gash, pulling his hand from the automaton's throat. His focus compromised in a cloud of pain, the armor losing coherence as he brought a leg up instinctively, aiming to connect with his opponent's side. It did, his shin connecting with the golem's lower right side, just above the floating ribs. It sent them both flying apart, and John took the moment to mold his armor upwards to cover the side of his head.

John glimpsed the ground again, they were hurtling to one of the larger islands. They were closer now.