Resator O'Caariel
04-07-11, 10:08 PM
“Combatants!” exploded the announcer’s voice, bursting upward like a geyser to meet the cheer of a modest crowd. The elf – dressed in elaborate viridian robes laced with gilt leaf stitching – lifting his arms, twirling to garner the attention of all that were present. He pantomimed a clap, and the spectators followed his voiceless instruction, creating a slow, abrasive heartbeat for the earthen amphitheater.
The failing sun’s light stabbed through the space between the massive wooden doors, making everything beyond a hazy silhouette. Resator had been waiting behind the gladiatorial gate for less than a quarter of an hour but the adrenaline coursing through his veins was causing his mental clock to creep from second to second. He measured his breaths, shifting his weight from one boot to the other. The leather of his gauntlet creaked audibly as he tensed and relaxed his grip upon the hilt at his side.
Typically the Knight-Errant wouldn’t be nervous about engaging in mutual combat. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if what he was feeling at that moment was anxiety. He knew that his technical swordplay was among the best in all of Greater Hammerfeld. Combine that with the raw talent for the art that he’d inherited from his father and there was fair justification for all the tournaments Reese had won. No, the young swordsman wasn’t so much concerned with battle itself but with whether or not he’d impress the audience.
Resator wasn’t the gladiator-entertainer type. While his swordsmanship could be called flashy at times, his use of the blade was more of a discipline – one he had a healthy respect for and took very seriously. Honorable combat, in his mind, wasn’t to be done before a crowd of onlookers. Death was in no way exciting. Still, the third son of House O’Caariel knew that to get the attention of powerful people you had to play in their arena – even if that arena was a literal one. Winning a fight or two would hopefully garner the eye of someone with the answers he sought.
The hefty wooden doors swung wide, moaning in protest as dust swirled upward from their bases. Gripping the hilt of his family sword, Resator O’Caariel uttered an oath beneath his breath and strode into the middle of the coliseum.
By now the crowd’s clapping had increased its tempo into a barely-uniform cacophony. Men and women, elves and men, stood from their respective seats, carrying the contestants into the center of the ring on the backs of their hands, the notes of their whistles. The noise was so much that Reese barely noticed the other three warriors entering from doors equidistant to his own, also marching their way towards the elven announcer.
It was warm, even as the day drew to a close; fresh lit torches and the humidity Underwood was notorious for were beginning to cause beads to form on Resator’s brow. The sun was in his eyes, so his opponents thus far were little more to him than imposing silhouettes. Even so, with the crowd having devolved into an eclectic, unabashed roar, Reese doubted he had the brain power to differentiate between one man and the next. Instead the young knight focused inward, steeling himself for the fight to come.
“Liliana,” he let fall from his lips, barely even a whisper, “This is for you.”
“Battle!” boomed the elf, his arms simultaneously dropping and sending the crowd into an even greater fury. Like a tidal wave of sound the cheers, jeers, stomping and clapping descended into the arena, no doubt deafening everyone present. It had always shocked Reese how even a small group of people could create so much noise – so much chaos.
Immediately he dismissed the thought, resolved to focus on the matter at hand. Stepping back the knight drew his heirloom blade, the steel gleaming in the afternoon sun. He gripped it comfortably with both hands, leveling the weapon in what would appear to be a casual stance; feet somewhat wider than his shoulders’ width apart, his following heel dug into the coliseum’s dark earth floor.
He took a deep breath, tasting the humid forest air as it filled his lungs, and slowly exhaled. Suddenly, Resator O’Caariel was precisely where he needed to be.
The failing sun’s light stabbed through the space between the massive wooden doors, making everything beyond a hazy silhouette. Resator had been waiting behind the gladiatorial gate for less than a quarter of an hour but the adrenaline coursing through his veins was causing his mental clock to creep from second to second. He measured his breaths, shifting his weight from one boot to the other. The leather of his gauntlet creaked audibly as he tensed and relaxed his grip upon the hilt at his side.
Typically the Knight-Errant wouldn’t be nervous about engaging in mutual combat. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if what he was feeling at that moment was anxiety. He knew that his technical swordplay was among the best in all of Greater Hammerfeld. Combine that with the raw talent for the art that he’d inherited from his father and there was fair justification for all the tournaments Reese had won. No, the young swordsman wasn’t so much concerned with battle itself but with whether or not he’d impress the audience.
Resator wasn’t the gladiator-entertainer type. While his swordsmanship could be called flashy at times, his use of the blade was more of a discipline – one he had a healthy respect for and took very seriously. Honorable combat, in his mind, wasn’t to be done before a crowd of onlookers. Death was in no way exciting. Still, the third son of House O’Caariel knew that to get the attention of powerful people you had to play in their arena – even if that arena was a literal one. Winning a fight or two would hopefully garner the eye of someone with the answers he sought.
The hefty wooden doors swung wide, moaning in protest as dust swirled upward from their bases. Gripping the hilt of his family sword, Resator O’Caariel uttered an oath beneath his breath and strode into the middle of the coliseum.
By now the crowd’s clapping had increased its tempo into a barely-uniform cacophony. Men and women, elves and men, stood from their respective seats, carrying the contestants into the center of the ring on the backs of their hands, the notes of their whistles. The noise was so much that Reese barely noticed the other three warriors entering from doors equidistant to his own, also marching their way towards the elven announcer.
It was warm, even as the day drew to a close; fresh lit torches and the humidity Underwood was notorious for were beginning to cause beads to form on Resator’s brow. The sun was in his eyes, so his opponents thus far were little more to him than imposing silhouettes. Even so, with the crowd having devolved into an eclectic, unabashed roar, Reese doubted he had the brain power to differentiate between one man and the next. Instead the young knight focused inward, steeling himself for the fight to come.
“Liliana,” he let fall from his lips, barely even a whisper, “This is for you.”
“Battle!” boomed the elf, his arms simultaneously dropping and sending the crowd into an even greater fury. Like a tidal wave of sound the cheers, jeers, stomping and clapping descended into the arena, no doubt deafening everyone present. It had always shocked Reese how even a small group of people could create so much noise – so much chaos.
Immediately he dismissed the thought, resolved to focus on the matter at hand. Stepping back the knight drew his heirloom blade, the steel gleaming in the afternoon sun. He gripped it comfortably with both hands, leveling the weapon in what would appear to be a casual stance; feet somewhat wider than his shoulders’ width apart, his following heel dug into the coliseum’s dark earth floor.
He took a deep breath, tasting the humid forest air as it filled his lungs, and slowly exhaled. Suddenly, Resator O’Caariel was precisely where he needed to be.