The Midwinter Melee (Open)

[Duffy]

The Midwinter Melee

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jjZACyYKGJ8)2573

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jjZACyYKGJ8)
Open to all who wish to enter, and to as many who dare. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23675-The-Midwinter-Melee-(Recruitment-OOC)&p=192376#post192376)

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jjZACyYKGJ8)

The Citadel rocked with the anticipation for bloodshed. The crowd, forever hungry, ravenous and revelling in the glory of others screamed for the great doors that separated fighting dome from carnal pit to fly open. From those doors the combatants would stream, bushy tailed (in some cases, literally) and bright eyed. From across the globe they had travelled to witness this moment, to share their false deaths in union with their fellow man.

Today was the Grand Melee, and Duffy Bracken was itching to fight.

Every few seconds, the dusty walls of the small ante chamber that kept the reception and the fighting domes divided shook. The cracks in the ancient structure widened with every repetition of footfall and applause, old scars opening to ooze legends instead of blood. Alone in his thoughts, the bard shuffled his feet over the dusty floor and clenched his hands tightly over the edge of the half rotten bench that offered a last respite on an already tiresome journey.

Up the slope, through the doors and out into the central dome of the Citadel was where the fates were going to carry him. Under normal circumstances there would only be one opponent awaiting his daggers and his jib, a simple exchange between two figures in the mists of obscurity.

The first day of the winter festival however, was anything but normal.

“Are you ready, Mr Brandybuck?” A monk, previously unseen until he spoke slipped out from the darkness, as if he had been embedded quite solemnly into the fabric of the Citadel itself. The bard looked up with a start, his youthful eyes shining with fear and readiness in a swirl of juxtaposing emotions.

“I am, good sir, ready though still uncertain as to wherever or not I’m willing.” He leant back, clapped with a cheer of mocking sentiment and pushed himself upright. He bounced from foot to foot, scuffing the dirt with his clumsy boots like so many before him had done to steel their nerves against the tides of war.

“When you are ready, the crowd awaits,” the hooded figure waved up the slope with a polite gesture of a bottomless sleeved arm before slipping away into shadow. Duffy followed the stretched finger and as if the gods had ordained it, the heavy double door, cut in two by the gravitation of the ascent clunked open.

The noise of the crowd washed down the slope like a tsunami, crashing against the bard like a rush of blood to the head. He felt a deep tension in his bones, which worked against his lithe form to drag him, kicking and screaming upwards against his will. He moved with a running charge up the incline, arms bent, fingers darting, hair ruffling with the momentum and broke out into the daylight.

There was no going back now.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our first brave combatant to enter the Midwinter Melee is Lord Brandybuck!” An Ai’bron monk’s voice, immestakible as a dull monotone pious boom declared the bard’s entrance. He had barely the time to rattle of a few meagre accomplishments against previous legendary entrants into the Citadel’s endless games before one of the other nine doors set against the curve of the fighting pit’s wall cracked open.

There was no magic disguising the sand today, and as such, the arena was three hundred feet with a tall, domed roof that was smooth and polished sandstone. If you took a deep, glottal sniff, you could practically smell the mountain and sea from which the Citadel was carved. The sand itself was a perfectly level blanket, like an ocean still and perfect before a righteous storm. No doubt it could be scribed with the motions of dainty footwork and spent arrows soon enough, and inked with blood and bile and piss and mewing cries. For just a moment, whilst he unsheathed his steel daggers and checked the fixtures and fittings of the Tinder Gear beneath his demi cloak and cloth wrappings, Duffy admired its strange beauty.

It did not last long, as an arrow crashed against the wall behind him. Its energy spent, the bard followed it’s trajectory to a figure in the distance, and took a deep breath of the luke warm air.

“Let’s get ready and rumbling,” he misquoted, not quite sure where he dredged the line from.

Soon, there would be a melee all around him, before then however, he had time to score first blood and deliver the opening soliloquy. He stopped listening to his racing thoughts as the sound of his boots thudding in the dirt drowned him out, and with little effort, against a backdrop of doors opening and an unseen crowd cheering, he made for his would be attacker.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

There inside the rumble of the dome was a sound that drowned even the noise of the crowd out to all who were near its vicinity. It was a primal sound, one of throaty challenging and uproar of boasting. It whined, wheezed, and changed pitches with each and every movement the owner did. A rising crescendo of obnoxiousness and bravado, a whirling tornado of chaos slamming into those around it, tossing them to the ground and leaving them in its destructive wake. The sound was a herald of only one warrior, a proud, vicious fighter that rumbled the notes over and over in a torrent.

Laughter echoed all around.

As soon as the doors had opened the adrenaline in Jensen Ambrose’s blood had practically sang to him, the pit of his stomach gurgling with uncontainable laughter as he giggled foolishly letting his weapons loose upon the first few unlucky souls near him. The sand had done nothing to impede his impressive agility, in fact the level grit managed to aid in his balance as he twirled his body in a deadly dance. Within mere moments Jensen had already eliminated one mercenary warrior from the competition, his body a score of cuts that collapsed on the ground with a gasp of shock. He never stopped moving, his limbs an extension of his will as he made it look like he was controlled by some invisible puppeteer.

He entered the contest when he had heard Duffy had, as well as a few other big names all around the planet Althanas. It was his desire to test his own mettle against such legendary titans of battle, but to hear that a few surprises were in store added to the allure. From hidden holes in the wall archers let off volleys into the masses. Indeed one almost nicked Jensen in the shoulder, and the hole in his shirt was testament that even with his superior lithe fighting style he could be a pin cushion at any time. Yet all these quirks only intensified Jensen’s resolve to see this battle out and crush everyone to prove he was the strongest fighter. And if not…well that was okay, he’d at least have the last laugh.

The crowd bellowed as one, cheers and jeers for warriors on the field and those who were merely biding their time. Jensen charged forwards towards the center, eager to meet head to head with anyone who dared. The rush of the battle fueled his already on edge blood, and Jensen was frothing at the mouth with giggles and mirth. He could feel a rumble on the ground and he turned to see a pocket of warriors scatter as a large pit revealed itself, the sand being swallowed as another roar entered the arena. Several warriors screamed in terror as they fled away, before three large, striped Fallien desert tigers pounced the nearest contenders, sending them sprawling as they attacked.

Jensen’s eyes went wide with anticipation, wondering how much more the citadel put into this year ending jubilee. Yet he never kept his gaze too far in the future, relishing the first foe who would come to him in.

[Restless Soul]

Amidst the flurry of preliminary combat many nameless faces brawled; mercenaries with meaningless deeds under their belt and a will for more fueling their passion for war. Three hundred feet of sand the theatre of carnage, scattered nobodies the comedy of errors to entertain the masses. Amidst the fighting were veterans of battle – weapons waiting to be satiated with the blood of victims as they had been promised, a promise always fulfilled in the past. Amras, however, was not among those counted as veterans. He was nobody; young, full of life, and altogether green in the art of war. The Midwinter Melee was a chance to carve his name in the sands of the Citadel with the blood of strangers. After all, what was there in life as a young sell-sword other than the desire to be recognized, to be known and respected?

It was for the sake of a name that the lithe elf had joined the free-for-all. A name carried with it the weight of its possessor. A name was something that preceded its carrier, creating hushed whispers of awe before one arrived, and left a wake in passing. Like all the others that had been unannounced upon arrival. Amras was a shadow compared to the main contestants who were to be publicized as they entered the fray – such as with Lord Brandybuck. With a good showing, a deft and steady hand, and a level head he hoped to change his fate. The unknown youth from Scara Brae would, himself, be a name to be remembered in time.

“Well chap,” Amras said with a laugh to his companion, Jackson, “I suppose it is our turn to join the fight, eh?” The large human at his side had been a close and trusted friend since the elf was a child. They had grown together, both in size and skill. As a member of his gang – the Bastards of Olme – Jackson knew Amras as well as anyone could. He was a monster compared to his friend. The human smiled, tapped both of his heavy blacksmith hammers against his iron chest-piece, and nodded. “Not one for words as always, that’s why we get along Jackson. Let’s cause some chaos.”

A man easily in his fifties, graying braided beard hanging halfway down his chest, turned towards the two adolescents. He flicked his longsword, arching the blood of his downed opponent in the sand. A pool of blood mixed with the grounds, clinging to his heavy steel boots. Shield raised, head lowered, he started towards the two with deadly intent. Amras knocked an arrow and followed the stone walls at his back, keeping his sharp amethyst eyes darting. Jackson took a slightly angular path, but kept the attention of the warrior. It would be a quick victory, Amras thought, but other opponent would posses much more prowess. He needed to dispatch the elderly warrior and move on as quickly as possible.

[Andren Carros]

The narrow cage was shrouded in pure darkness except for one bright, thin line of light cast from the slight gap between the heavy doors separating Andren from the raucous chaos without. Heat and dust enveloped the sellsword, causing a light layer of sweat to coat his exposed muscle and wet his dark gray tunic. The monk stood quietly off to the side, neither making gestures nor forming expressions. It looked almost as if the man was not even aware of Andren's presence. On the other hand, Andren was acutely aware of the robed figure's presence, and resented it with growing intensity. Deep down he knew the monk was doing no such thing, but in his current state of mind he fretted that the man could sense his nervousness. Sense it, and judge him for it.

Without thought the sellsword gripped the hilt of his sword with his right hand and his dagger with his left, easing the blades in their sheaths for the hundredth time to ensure a swift draw. He considered pulling out his sword now, just to be sure he had it ready when the doors opened, but he baselessly feared the monk's judgment. Mentally he cursed himself for a fool; he really was not usually so self conscious. In fact, Andren was typically rather confident. However, this was a first for him, and the anticipation had his emotions broiling. Running a hand through his damp russet hair, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

It was not the first time he had killed a man – no, that incident had been a quick and sweaty affair in the alleyway behind a tavern, not unlike the first time a boy had a woman. The target had managed to disarm the then inexperienced Andren, leading to a fist fight and climaxing with them rolling around in the dirt, Andren's hands around the man's neck. He had been paid good coin and suffered little remorse. Actually, he really hadn't felt any remorse whatsoever, but typically he let himself think he had since he thought that was supposed to be the norm after taking a man's life.

It was not even the first time he had been in the Citadel. He had quickly adapted to mercenary life when he had arrived in Corone almost a year ago, and he had found the Citadel to be a terrific training ground and outlet for emotion. Rather, it had been a way to vent emotion before today. Right now it only seemed to be making matters worse. He opened his eyes, letting the thin beam of light flow into them and illuminate his emerald green irises.

It was the first time Andren had fought in such a large melee, and never before had he had such a grand audience. It seemed like such a small thing to be worried about. He trusted his skill with his blade against one opponent, so why not two or three or a hundred? No flashy ornament adorned his simple green leather jerkin and black iron shoulder plates, and while Andren was indeed tall he was not really all that big. Muscle he had for a certainty, but he was not so large that he would draw the attention of numerous combatants at once. Why then, was he so anxious?

He had spent the night in bed with a beautiful girl with bright blue eyes and shapely breasts, collected a hefty coin purse only yesterday for a job he had completed a ways outside of the city, and had won a difficult fight in the Citadel less than a week ago against a giant of a man at least a head taller than himself. What was so special about now? Taking another deep breath, he let himself relax, loosening his muscles and scratching an itch on his arm. He would fight his best, but win or lose, there was really no consequence. After all, who would stop him from embellishing the story of his fight to those he told it to?

“You are ready now,” the monk said slowly and emphatically.

Andren chuckled quietly. It seemed the monk could sense his nervousness after all. “Yes, I suppose I am now. Let's get it over with,” he replied calmly.

And with that the heavy wooden doors flew open with surprising speed, and light and sound plunged into the former darkness. Andren took a moment to let his eyes adjust and then slowly drew his sword, Zephyr, out of it's scabbard and took a step forward. The three and a half foot steel blade gleamed in the light, and rested so comfortably in Andren's hand that it seemed a mere extension of his arm. In front of him men – and women – of all races and sizes clashed on a giant arena of sand. What was likely once a serene floor of whitish yellow grains of earth was now a field of chaos. Even near the edges of the arena there was scarcely a spot of undisturbed sand. Blood had soaked into the ground, leaving dark red patterns swirling through the melee.

A ways away a giant man with two huge hammers caught his eye, but Andren made himself focus on the enemies closest to him. His brief period of examination was cut short as a dark skinned man caught sight of him and began a charge with a giant axe held overhead. The foe, clearly not a native of Corone, was naked but for a loin cloth tied around his waist, and even that did little to cover the man as it –and that which was beneath it – flapped up and down with the rise and fall of his legs. Andren almost wanted to sigh. He had hoped that such reckless charges were something only Coronian youth employed, but it seemed even grown men of other countries made use of such foolish tactics. Having grown up in a Elven town that instructed its youth in the art of combat from an early age, Andren was rather unaccustomed to and contemptuous of those who fought with ill form.

Andren stood his ground with his sword relaxed at his side. He followed the man's movements with trained eyes, waiting until the last instant to take a agile step to the side. In one brisk, fluid movement Andren stuck out his foot to trip the attacker and drove his sword point into the exposed back of the falling man. Without pause he withdrew his blade and spun around, delivering a powerful backhand slash across the rear of the foreigner's neck, killing him instantly. If he felt no remorse when he took a man's life in reality, he would certainly give no quarter when he knew they would wake up unharmed in the Citadel.

Turning, he advanced rapidly but tactically toward the center of the fray, searching for more easy meat. He was young, but he was skilled. After calming himself down before the fight, and especially now that he had already drawn blood, he was unafraid. This should prove to be rather enjoyable, he thought with a slight smirk as he engaged his next foe.

[Duffy]

Before the archer had even hit the dirt, there was an explosion of activity throughout the arena. Combatants swarmed from the doors and a slew of bodies collided with the sand long before the bard could exclaim a brief, bitter victory. He turned with a snap to survey the scene, and looked closely at each enemy to see if anyone stood out.

He was half surprised to see Jensen Ambrose, his blood brother, already gallivanting about with more style than he could ever muster. Something told the bard Stephanie was not privy to this engagement, or Orphans, for that matter, the couple’s adopted daughter.

“Show off,” he grumbled, taking to twirling his bloodied daggers in tight concentric circles to steel his senses and concentration.

The cheers, and in some cases jeers of the bustling crowd swooned the bard and floated his ego. In the chaos, it was impossible to decipher who was cheering or jeering for whom, but if you picked out the cherries from the storm and ignored the insults, it felt like he was their champion.

Finally finding his swagger again, he charged headlong through two duelling women with ample bosoms and barrel rolled under a heavy broadsword which tried to disconnect his head from his shoulders with a cheeky sucker punch attack from out of the blue.

“Drat,” he heard the knight swear, before he whisked himself closer towards his opponent.

From the man’s age, Duffy drew the unwise conclusion that he was unskilled, despite the stern grimace on his face and the carcasses littering the ground about his feet. As he closed the gap, the smell of sand, blood and crotch lingering in his flaring nostrils a backward spin severed a neck and cut any hope in the bard’s mind of a quick follow up kill to keep his own blood pumping and adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He suddenly felt frosty, and chuckled madly at the irony as winter chilled the streets of Radasanth, and the fire of war kept its citizens aglow.

“Incoming!” He roared, flicking an iron dagger without much conviction at the man to precede his double thrust follow up step.

[Restless Soul]

Battle was underway for all the opponents of the Midwinter Melee. No more introductions were to be had, whatever names were to be remembered were present and engaged. It was a cacophony of noise. The drowning tones of warfare were pounding through the arena, each struggling for precedence. Amras could hear the clash of blades, the chattering of armor sheltering its wearer, and the wounded as they cried in pain. All around him the sounds clattered and clanged, flooding his sharp elven ears. Overhead the crowd was an uproar all its own. A clamor of spectators poured over the combatants, mingling with the crash of battle. Amras heard the screams of discontent, the laughter of those somehow amused by blood, and the cries of passion wasted on the occupied warriors. It was so much that the elf felt as if it all mixed into a single, unintelligible and unimaginable drone that forced him to ignore it all or be overwhelmed.

The light iplink of his bowstring letting loose an arrow was almost lost, but the sound was so delicate and graceful that he could only smile as it cut through the dissonance. The smile was a toothy one, filled with an animosity and blood-thirsty desire the young elf had never felt. In his entire life he had never wanted to see the spray of blood and hear a cry of pain caused by the sharp iron head more. As if the arrow had a similar thought it winked in the bright lights of the arena, agreement and a willingness to comply. The arrow-head spun furiously as it passed through the combatants, missing a lithe human by inches as he passed. It sped with a bloody intent and quickly passed the meager distance to its target. Amras saw a thing of beauty in the arrows flight and intent, even as it passed through a patch of leather.

At the same time as the arrow found the underarm of the older warrior, a thick hammer slammed into his outstretched shield. Jackson’s heavy weapons sent splinters into the air. The wooden shield buckled and gave way. The young human’s strength overtook the experienced warriors attempt to block and the shield was the victim. Before the first blow had been retracted, Jackson was swinging his opposite hammer at the bearded opponent. The heavy iron head, once used to bend steel into armor, betrayed its original use and bent the opponent’s armor. At the same time, however, the older man cried out with a spit-filled scream. The arrow penetrated his underarm, his sword plunged into Jackson, and his chest was crushed by a hammer.

“Damn it!” Amras knocked another arrow, ready to send it flying immediately. It took seconds for him to draw and fire. A meager three seconds was too long though, and he stopped mid-draw. A moment of pure clarity overtook him as he watched the scene unfold. His friend fell forward, spitting blood, a sword jutting out his back. His opponent fell towards him, also spitting blood as the broken ribs pierced his empty lungs. The two heavy-set warriors, one youth and one aged, clashed heads. The man’s shield sprayed dirt as it clattered to the ground, both men dying almost instantly.

Amras was alone in combat, no attention given to him for the time being as he watched the first and only opponent die. His fingers felt cold, as if unsure of what to do. For a moment he froze, arrow knocked and half-drawn. Without Jackson he would be alone against whatever combatants remained, a position he brought the burly human with him to avoid. Silently he cursed the corpse of his friend. The moment of clarity passed and the world came crashing back to him. The sounds of war, the scent of sweat and determination, and the taste of blood drown his lucidity, reminding him there were still others to contend with.

He spun towards the center of the conflict, moving towards where others seemed to want to gather. It was a danger zone, a place where there was no security. All around the combatants would be in danger, not only facing the opponent before them but the ones unseen as well. Amras wanted nothing to do with the hazardous area, but the cries of the people and thoughts of grandeur called to him like a siren’s song. He started towards the other people that had all forced their way to center-stage. Without thinking he let loose another arrow, aiming for a patch of people in the middle. No true target, but there was no shortage of them no matter the point of aim. It was up to the arrow to determine its victim, and the winking iron-headed projectile seemed intent on finding the well-known Brandybuck’s chest. “Damn it!”

[Andren Carros]

Andren Carros smiled as his blade found its way under his foe's shield and bit into the soft green flesh of the orc's waist. Spittle sprayed out as the wounded humanoid roared in agony, followed by a rage-filled swing of a jagged war axe aimed at Andren's uncovered head. The blow was easily dodged, and left the orc's neck exposed. Without hesitation Andren viciously slashed at the perfect target, leaving a deep gash gushing blood so dark it almost looked black.

Before Carros could dislodge his blade he was shoved forwards from behind, and both human and dying orc tumbled to the ground, Andren almost landing on the sharp edge of the axe. Gritting his teeth, he gained his feet rapidly and swirled to face the assailant, but saw the man had already been slain by someone else. With so many combatants, much could happen in the blink of an eye during this melee. By now the sand was more red than yellow, and the corpses of the vanquished were becoming a new obstacle in the battle. Along with the dead, other unseen traps and impediments littered the arena, but these had been created by the monks of the Citadel; fire and steel erupted from unexpected places, ravaging the bodies of the slain and felling those still standing.

Leaping nimbly over the corpse of the orc, Andren engaged another swordsman with a series of rapid blows. The other human was more heavily armored, with a mail vest, iron greaves, and wooden shield, but Andren was much faster. He danced around his opponent, landing small cuts on the unarmored parts of his foe's arms and legs, and parrying or dodging the man's ripostes. The dance continued longer than Andren's other skirmishes, but finally the knight blundered and let his shield drop too low, laying bare his neck. Thinking to employ the same strike that had felled the orc, Andren took his sword back and prepared to swing, but froze just as an arrow shot past him at shoulder level, mere inches in front of him. Had he swung only a moment sooner the iron arrow-head would have pierced his unprotected arm, likely rendering his right arm useless for combat.

The slight lull was all the time the other swordsman needed to raise up his shield and begin the assault anew. Andren now found himself on the defensive, knocking his foe's blows aside and giving more ground than he took. One had to be exceptionally cautious when retreating - with so many enemies around it was easy to walk into someone else, or worse, their blade. But Andren had no time for caution as he continually stepped away from the salvo of attacks, and had to trust in Lady Luck to watch his back.

As it happened, the dice were cast in Andren's favor and no ill befell him in his retreat. After a few more hasty steps backward, Andren found another opening to return to the offense, but once more paused. No arrows passed him by this time; instead he had noticed a glint of metal and a sudden rapid shifting of the sand between him and his opponent. Trusting his instinct, he threw himself backward, just as a giant pillar of flame erupted from the ground, engulfing his foe and lighting Andren's boots aflame. Quickly he leaped to his feet and stomped out the fire, before giving the gift of mercy to the roasting knight with a swift strike to the chest, piercing mail and heart alike. The Citadel might not claim combatant's lives, but pain was felt exactly as it was outside the massive arena, and the man had given Andren a good fight; Carros did not think the knight deserved the torture of being incinerated alive.

With a look to the right, Andren soon located the elf that must have shot the arrow, for the archer seemed to be the only one in the general area who had not yet forsaken his bow for a weapon more suited to close combat. Before he could move, a roar not unlike the orc's erupted from his left. Turning, he saw a large, spotted cat charging towards him at great speed. Andren reached down and drew his throwing knife out of his boot with his left hand. Taking stance, he a waited moment for the cat to get closer and then threw with all the force he could muster, sending the iron blade into the great animal's mouth. The knife punctured the rear of the cat's neck, and the beast fell to the ground beside Andren, it's high pitched death rattled soon silenced as blood filled the animal's gullet. Carros disliked bringing death to something so graceful and powerful, but thought it far preferable to the experience of the cat's jaws around his throat.

In the process of drawing his throwing knife he had noticed his boots slick with blood, accompanied by a new sharp pang. Most likely the knight had landed a blow unnoticed - in the heat of battle Andren found he often did not feel minor injuries until he saw them. Regardless, it was not enough to hinder his movement, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins helped mask the pain. Not bothering to retrieve his knife, Andren turned back to the place he had last spotted the archer, and readied his sword to deal with those that came between them as he stalked forwards.