Blood & Glory - A Tale of Pitfighters [Closed]

[Penance]

Why do we fight?

It was a question he often asked himself when staring into the eyes of his enemy.

His reasons were simple: for glory, honor, and most importantly immortality. It was his birthright. He was bred for battle, trained to kill, and he excelled at both. It was the only thing he knew.

But what was theirs? What was worth their lives? Were they the same reasons as his? Or were they fighting for wealth, or out of some self-righteous notion of right and wrong? Were they fighting for those they loved?

He didn't know. Some men might be haunted by such an answer, but Barathios hadn't so much as batted an eyelash. It wasn't that he lacked a conscience: it was that death was a normal part of life and he had seen more than his share of it. Even at a young age he had witnessed things in the cold north that would make grown men empty the contents of their stomach onto the floor at the thought of. The first time he saw a man die he found it so exciting, so captivating, he was unable to look away. It was human nature to enjoy the suffering of others as long as one wasn't suffering themselves. He lacked the compassion to relate to their suffering because he had never been hurt before, the idea was so alien to him it was comical.

____

The stage was simple: a circular dirt pit ringed with sharpened wooden spikes. There was only one brief juncture in the spikes and two heavily armored knights stood vigil there, hands at the ready by their sword belts.

The Highland Lord leered around him at the gallery of foreign faces that watched him through the gaps of wood, a kaleidoscope of varying eye colors meeting his gaze, and then he looked up coldly at those who could afford seats on the second-floor balconies jutting from wooden buildings, and atop wooden bleachers hastily erected in anticipation of the coming battle. None would cheer for him, they weren't his people, but by the end they would shout his name: "Barathios! Barathios!" He would give them a show they would never forget.

Barathios swaggered around the farside of the ring opposite the entrance. "Are none of you brave enough to fight me?!" he challenged with a roar. His towering figure was made even more imposing by the bulk his armor bestowed him. He stood just short of seven feet, with an incredible physique, every inch of his body carvd with lean muscle, but the bizarre combination of iron chainmail, steel-plate, rawhide and wolfskin furs that covered him head-to-toe seemed to add much more to that: especially with the wolfskin cape draped down his back all the way to his powerful calves. "I can tell by the way you tremble that you have heard of the Andvalli before," he erupted in laughter, a deep and bellowing boom that rose from his gut. "I promise we don't bite, at least not with our teeth," he opened his mouth and gave them a glimpse of his perfect white smile.

The Andvalli Nobleman continued to pace around, motioning at the crowd with his painted wooden round-shield bearing the three interposed leaves of his family crest and his longsword as they began to hurl insults at him, beckoning them into the ring with a threatening gesture of his blade.

He would be remembered. His deeds immortalized in song and story. He would live forever, eternal glory was in his sight and he'd carve his way to it no matter how long it took him, and no matter how many dared stand in his way.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Why do I fight?

It was a question that I found myself asking every time I take a trip into the legendary Citadel. It used to be that I always fought out of necessity; because in my old line of work it was kill-or-be-killed. I used to fight to earn a coin here and there. I used to fight because it was all I knew how to do.

But now? I have no practical reason to fight anymore. I retired from the assassin trade years ago. I've moved on. And yet, I find myself returning to the bloody circus that was the Citadel. As much as I hate the fakeness of combat here, holding these knives again brings back something in the deep recesses of my mind that fills me with a warm familiarity. And as much as I fight it, ending the lives of others--even momentarily--is something that I do really well. Slitting the throat or stabbing a vital organ of some hapless fighter in the Citadel offers me an emotional release that I cannot find elsewhere; not even in the musty darkness of my alchemical experiments or buried deep within my extensive library.

So, why do I fight?

I am desparate to feel something. Anything.


___________


One of the two armored guards standing in the arena's entryway notices me out of the corner of his eye, and motions for his buddy to step aside. As I step confidently onto the hard-packed dirt, I am greeted by the blazing sun and the jeers of dozens upon dozens of spectators assembled closeby. I took a quick survey of my surroundings. To my disappointment, the dirt pit was surrounded by a circle of sharpened wooden sticks. Very unimaginative, considering some of the arenas that the Citadel monks dumped me into and onto in the past.

My opponent stood in the arena, posturing and posting. He was a rather handsome young man. Tall, with looks that implied he was of Salvic descent, and probably built like a brick house (it was hard to tell underneath the armor). The armor itself was rather ordinary; a sensible but slightly off-putting mixture of polished plate, chainmail, and various dead animals adorning him from head to toe. The man tightly gripped a wooden shield in one hand, and his drawn sword in the other. His body language and the amount of ego in his voice had me pegging him as someone of nobility. I took an immediate disliking to him.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," I said rather matter-of-factly as I pulled the pitch-black hood of my sifan cloak down behind my head, increasing my field of vision. "I'm not here to get to know you, or stand in awe of your shimmering armor and impressive sword. I'm here to kill you and be on my way."

I pulled my cloak tight around me and took a quick inventory. Twin daggers strapped to my back; check. Belt with six throwing daggers; check. Two old vials of paralyzing powder, just in case; check and check. The wire wrapped around my upper arms; of course it was there. Protective drakescale corset; never left home without it.

Sliding my hidden right hand around the hilt of one of the throwing daggers, I locked eyes with the Sir Prance-A-Lot and said, "So, let's get this over with." With one fluid motion, I whipped my arm into the air, throwing back the billowing fabric of my cloak in the process. Before it could settle behind me, I slid my right foot behind me in a makeshift stance before feinting and hurling the steel dagger, ass over tip, in a lightning-quick arc towards my armored foe.

[Penance]

No one answered his challenges. And just when he started to think he’d be stuck here all day waiting, a cloaked figure pressed their way through the guards and stepped into the ring.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries. I'm not here to get to know you, or stand in awe of your shimmering armor and impressive sword. I'm here to kill you and be on my way."

Barathios had been about to open the woman up with his sword like a gleeful child opening a Christmas present when suddenly they drew back their cape and a female's face poked out of the hood.

He laughed, thumbing the hilt of his longsword and swaggering in place until the woman had finished talking.

Let the birdie sing her song, he thought, it'll be her last.

Then, there was a flash of steel, striking as sudden and unexpected as a viper in a meadow, so fast he didn’t even have time to raise his shield to block. Instead, his head swayed to the side, and the blade’s tip brushed the surface of his face, shaving stubble from his jaw. His cheek was marred by a red ribbon of blood where the blade had caught him. It continued to soar past him until two thumps were heard directly behind him; the first was the throwing knife sticking into a man’s head who stood dumbly between the fence of wooden spikes, and the second was his body hitting the ground.

Barathios strode confidently towards the woman: sword-arm rising to wipe away the trail of blood with the back of his hand, and when his arm lowered back to his side, the startling revelation of his blemish-less face was evidenced. The wound – or lack thereof – had vanished. Healed already.

Shock and awe.

“You cunt,” he brought his blade hacking down for her collarbone as his shield heaved up to guard himself from possible retaliation.

The ensuing clash of steel would decide their fates: only one of them could leave alive. He just hoped she would put on a good show before he collected his money and left. After all, he had a reputation to maintain and he wouldn’t tarnish his people’s honor by losing to a woman. Not here. Not ever.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

My ears perked up at the four-letter word that rang through the air, cutting through even the tremendous roar of the bloodthirsty onlookers that circled the pit. I’ve been called many things in my twenty-seven years; a monster, a wretch, a failure, a dirty whore, an asshole, a worthless shitbag, a fucking bitch, but cunt?

How incredibly rude.

I was about to fire of a venomous comeback when this scrub raised a hand to his face, wiped the crimson liquid off with his armored hand, and removed it to reveal that his cheek had healed completely; leaving behind no evidence of having first blood drawn against him. Huh. This was going to be an interesting little tumble.

I focused inwardly, recalling everything that I had experienced as a vaunted Warrior of the Dajas Pagoda, all those years ago. All the blood that was shed and the lessons learned flooded back into my mind, and the muscle memory from the countless fights in my haunted carnival returned. It was time to prove to this spoiled brat that if he was going to call me the most terrible of names, then Thayne be damned, I deserved to have an equally-horrible adjective put in front of it.

The oversized tin can was upon me before I could retrieve my daggers, sword arm raised in the air and coming down fast towards my neck. Out of any real offensive options, I quickly dodged to my left. The edges of my midnight-tinted sifan cloak lingered in my wake, giving no resistance as the steel blade brushed it aside on its way into the dirt.

I took a split second to analyze the situation. With that big shield, sword, and suit of armor; my daggers were no match. Engaging in fisticuffs—even with a swift kick to the family jewels or a sucker punch to the teeth—was equally foolish. I had five throwing knives left, which were useless in close range. Even with these unfortunate circumstances, I still had a couple tricks up my sleeves. Two, actually. Made of delyn.

With a single thought, I commanded the two ends of the telekinetic cable around my arms to lower to the ground. As my opponent began to raise his sword arm once more; I floated the wires up and through the open front of my cloak, sending them in circles around his knees.

I quickly jumped back out of range of the man’s sword. Then, I slid my left leg forward and pivoted my right foot, giving me some leverage as I commanded the wires to constrict and trap his legs. Wrapping my hands around looser lengths of the wires in front of me, I threw all of my strength into a giant pull backwards. I hoped that the force of the pull, given that the wires had wrapped around my opponent’s knees and the weight of his armor, would send him crashing to the ground.

[Penance]

It was a game of cat and mouse. And Brathios was well-accustomed to this game. Due to his size he was always forced to play the cat and had become quite a profficient predator and mice hunter through rote learning. It was just a matter of holding his ground until he could finally corner them, pick them up in his paw and sink in his teeth.

The woman maneuvered to the right of his descending sword, narorwly evading its bite. As he would begin to step after her in pursuit he noticed a flash of white against the sun, ribboning around his feet. It was too late to dodge by then. His own height was disadvantagous. Even though he was built like an oak tree, there was something to be said about a low center of gravity. The moment the woman peeled backwards through the air his fate was sealed, preordained by some naturally reoccuring law that seemed to befall men of his stature.

He fell. Fast and hard. An explosion of dust and dirt clouded the air proceeding his racketous descent.

It was a common misconception that his size took away from his speed. The idea that being as big as him came hand-in-hand with being slow and clumsy was rubbish. If other people his height had those traits it was simply because they chose to be slow and clumsy, and their lack of desire to evolve disgusted him.

He sprang to his feet with a catlike grace out of the snaring wires, crouched in a squat with his right foot before the left, shield propped up before him to limit any possible areas the woman could target and his sword pressed tightly to its side ready to stab out at a moments notice.

He had only given her a few seconds opening; which, he judged, probably wouldn't be enough. The woman had jumped back to perform her attack and brought herself out of his sword range, so naturally the act also took him even farther from the range of her sword.

He would keep his center of gravity low and his advance slow to limit or completely negate the use of the woman's wires which relied on him off-balancing himself, since she simply lacked the strength to muscle him to the ground even if she bounded to and fro like a frog crossing a busy Radasanthian street.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

I cracked a wry grin as the satisfying clash of steel armor and clinging of mail sounded from the middle of the dirt circle. The rambunctious crowd let out a chorus of whoops and hollers at the sight of the giant tin can hit the ground hard. As the dust billowed into the air, I slowly unraveled my wires from around my opponent’s knees and recalled them underneath my cloak and around my arms. It would’ve been my luck if the man was quick enough to capitalize on our temporary binding.

To his credit, the fall didn’t knock the breath out of him; merely rattled him just a bit. Nearly as quick as he tumbled down, he was back on his feet and slightly crouched with his shield raised to his face in a defensive position. It was a pretty comical sight, this heavily armored warrior cowering before me like a mutt with its tail between its legs.

I looked up to the audience, my view partially blocked by the wooden stakes that penned us in. I kept my body facing forward as a matter of common sense as I addressed the bloodthirsty onlookers. “Look at him. Take a good, long look at him.” I motioned to my armored opponent with an open hand. “He stood before you a braggart minutes ago, openly challenging any one of you to a fight.”

As I spoke, the ends of my wire doubled over the sleeves of my blouse top and slid hidden behind my back and down to the hilts of my daggers, each end wrapping tightly around a different dagger.

“And now,” I continued, “he hides behind his shield and his armor, like a scolded child does his mother.” The crowd roared in laughter, taunting and jeering the warrior. A couple of rotten vegetables were actually tossed into the pit, landing close enough to him to drive their distaste home. (It was the little touches that the monks of the Citadel added to their arenas that made the place worth coming to.)

I addressed my opponent directly this time, making no effort to mask my scorn. “Get up off the ground, kid. I didn’t come here to play around. Stop your silly antics and textbook defensive techniques and fight me.”

I threw back the edges of my cloak and extended my arms out, revealing the five remaining polished steel throwing daggers on my belt and glistening drakescale corset. I stood before him defiantly, practically begging him to try another overhand strike or an easily-avoided forward thrust with his sword. Either way, and despite the fact that I unveiled the wires this early in the battle, I still had a few tricks in my repertoire that would help me win this fight. The biggest problem was that damned shield that he brandished.

“Come at me, coward,” I howled at the top of my lungs.

[Penance]

He said nothing. His face had transformed into an expression of grim resolve as he advanced, keeping his body low to deter any further attempts by the woman's wires to snare him and bring him to the ground.

The woman was clever, using her speed to outmaneuver him. But how long could she keep it up before she made a mistake and he capitalized on it? For now, offensively, she wasn't much of a threat due to his armor and shield keeping her unwilling to commit fully to an attack. His strategy was simple: continue to advance on her and wait, she would expend more energy in her high-impact acrobatic than he would. His slow, practical, 'textbook' approach wasn't the most crowd pleasing but it was the most rational response. Eventually she'd make a mistake and when she did he'd be there waiting with a smile on his face and his sword in hand.

Even her words were unable to sway him, her taunts falling on deaf ears, though the crowd seemed to enjoy it well enough.

"You Coronians seem to have a different definition of cowardice than we do," he said loudly, his voice devoid of any emotion, making it hard to tell if he was angry or merely amused. Even his face was a perfect mask of apathy, yet it couldn't hide the determination that was etched across the handsome lines of his face. "In Salvar cowering generally occurs when one is moving away, not towards," a deep, throaty chuckle spilled from the knight's lips, "but perhaps once you're done dancing, you can put on your armor and we can fight."

His remark garnered a few chuckles from the foreigners amidst the crowd, the rest who were backing the woman (for reasons obvious to anyone with a brain bigger than a pea) mostly scowled or threw more taunts. Their minimial support sustained him. Especially the loud, drunk Salvarian that had stumbled out of a tavern, saw the fight, and began to yell lewd remarks at the woman. Another man made a point to say something to him only to have a mug of Salvarian gold smashed into his face. Then the man was right back at it. Brathios swelled with pride. It had taken five Coronians to beat the drunken man bloody.

What hope did this woman think she had alone and friendless in a ring with a freakishly big, fully armored, and genetically perfect Andvallian knight trained since birth to do nothing but command armies and be an unstoppable killing machine when it had taken five Coronians to knockout a single drunk Salvarian? Not much.

He motioned with his head to the events unfolding outside the ring. "I suppose that's the height of courage in Corone: attacking in a pack." He smirked, "I'd be happy to fight you if you at least fought back, but the best you've done is dirty my breeches." He advanced still, and if she let him get close enough a quick thrust of his blade, measured and timed so it wouldn't overcommit, would slash across her arm.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

The excitement from the onlookers began to die down as the warrior and I continued our little game of cat and mouse on turtles. My opponent advanced slowly, keeping the sharpened tip of his sword out and his shield held high. With each small step he took forward, I took an equal step back, mindful of the gaps between the trunks of wood that kept us penned in the arena. We circled each other; he in his cowardly do-nothing pose, me with my arms stretched out and offering the view of how woefully prepared I was for direct combat with him--not to mention the free shot that one would think came with such a tactic. But, alas.

I could hear grumblings coming from the crowd that flooded the streets. They had come to see blood, and finally realized that they will not get any. Their displeasure would last as long as the monks of the Citadel would keep them manifested in one of their numerous magically-constructed battle chambers.

My opponent comically remained in his hunched, first-year defensive pose. His full suit of armor clanged slightly as we circled each other in the dirt pit. The one-dimensional look of determination on his face was practically begging for me to make the first move--as if reacting was the only four moves in his repertoire.

"Get on with it, fuckers," one of the more irate watchers screamed as he chucked a rotten tomato into the arena. The moldy veggie connected with my opponent's armor, splattering its red guts all over the back of his plate with a sickening smush! His stone-cold gaze remained locked on my face.

I shook my head. "I can't do this anymore. This is simply ridiculous." I let my arms fall down to my sides, and withdrew my waiting wires back underneath my sleeves. "For someone who was all boasting and bragging and talking about bravery, you do an awful lot of dancing around yourself. I've given you ample opportunity to swing your little blade at me; but you just stand there, hunched over, hiding behind your shield and sixty pounds of steel and iron."

If my words had any effect on him, I couldn't tell by looking at his face. I pulled my hood back up over my head, and wrapped myself tightly in my black sifan cloak. "What an incredible bore you are. I think the crowd is likely to agree with me."

I looked upwards, towards the bright blue sky and at nothing at all. "I've had enough of this. Get me out of here."

For several moments, nothing happened. A small chorus of boos began to rise from the crowd. I caught a glimpse of a few more rotten veggies entering the arena, their guts splattering across the hard-packed dirt.

"Fine, we'll do things your way," I rolled my eyes and muttered to myself. "I yield!"

The very second my words hit the breeze the warrior, the wooden stake fence, and the boisterous and upset crowd faded into a grey mist all around me.

[Mordelain]

Thread Title: Blood & Glory – A Tale of Pitfighters
Judgement Type: Condensed
Participants: Penance, BlackandBlueEyes

Score: Penance left, BlackandBlueEyes right.

Plot ~ 13/15

Story– 5/6 – battles are always difficult to make scintillating, but here, Madison’s potent use of her inner thoughts told her past without really telling it. I got the sense of trouble, and heroism, and dirty dealings. You did the best with what time you had to do it in.

Setting– 4/5 – both of you focussed too much on character and action, and abandoned the olfactory senses, and deeper, meaningful use of the setting. Whilst the extreme can result in flower prose, the arena was meagre, barren, and sparse. Use it as a weapon, as much as a shield, and involve your characters thoughts with the surroundings. I’m sure Madison has a quip or two about the décor, and Penance a pious put down about the demonism of the new world, surely?

Pacing– 4/4 – the length of the battle destroyed any opportunity for a well-developed exchange.

Character ~ 16/18

Communication– 4/7 – Babe, all that is needed to say here, is that you remain the only competent writer in the first person. It really speaks leaps and bounds of your ability to write with Madison. Penance, try not to fall into the cliché trap for your character, there needs to be a weakness, a flaw, and indeed, a quirk to set our communication apart – especially in a constrained and pressured environment.

Action– 6/5 – Penance’s blunt style won the day her, with simple, short, and quick exchanges. Babe, try not to let the strength of Madison, her character, detract from the nitty gritty – the reason you’re in the Citadel – to fight.

Persona– 6/6

Prose ~ 19/22

Mechanics– 6/8

Clarity– 8/8 – very little complaints.

Technique– 5/6 – the length of the battle prevented any developed technique from arising. You both have strong concrete base levels, but I’d like to see more attempts at developed writing, even in a short time frame, beyond the tense use and simple sentence switching.

Wildcard: – 6/5 – Penance stole the show with his evocation of heroism in his introduction, his motions, and his persona. Whilst Babe carried the action (the thick of it, so to speak), I enjoyed the display of fearless from our winged fellow. Short, sharp, and blunt to the tee, a quick paced battle worth mention.

Total: 53/60

Black and Blue Eyes receives 1575 xp and 200 gold.

Penance receives 450 xp and 50 gold.

I would be happy to develop on the points above, or provide more in depth examples based on those notes if requested. cydneyoliver@gmail.com, or my Mordelain inbox are both appropriate avenues to do.

If you have any concerns, doubts, and worries, and don’t wish to speak to me directly for whatever reason, then I am sure another member of staff will resolve the matter on your behalf. I am perfectly amenable and open to feedback, as the judge has to develop, as much as the writer put under the scrutiny of the rubric!

[Mordelain]

EXP/GP Added.