The Calm Stream (Closed Fight)

[Twylyght]

Dethel was awoken by a rough shake as the farmer who had given him a ride yelled at him to wake up. Apparently they were at the citadel already, a strange arena Dethel had heard about from his employer, Jadius. He sat up and hopped off the end of the cart, brushing off a few strands of hay that clung to his tall form. Rubbing his blue eyes and running a hand through his hair, he looked at the farmer and thanked him for the ride.

He gave him a few gold coins for payment, as he had faithfully brought him here on his way home, and Dethel was glad someone was halfway trustworthy in his business. Jadius had wanted Dethel to fight more people to become a better hitman, as he said that it was his father's wish. Dethel hesitantly agreed, not knowing much about the citadel, and had made his way via farmer to the citadel from his house.

The streets didn't look much different that Scara Brae, dusty and dirty, and as he inhaled the smell of disturbed ground, he watched the ox driven cart move off. Running another hand through his short brown hair, he found a stray piece of hay stuck in it, and removed it. Dropping it to the ground, he stretched his arms and kicked his feet a few times, before yawning and finally truly waking up from his short nap. He checked that his katana was in place, and drew it out.

It was pretty shiny, but it was still a somewhat dull iron color. He'd definitely have to get a steel one, or maybe silver later on. Among all the iron maidens have whips, Jadius would surely have more swords. Swinging it a few times, he replaced it in its sheath, and walked towards the large doors of the citadel. It was much more... grand than the buildings he was accustomed to, and he felt like he was disturbing something great when opening the doors. He walked into the first room, where a monk greeted him almost before the door shut.

"Hello adventurer! My, you're a tough looking one! Do you want to fight today?!" The monk chattered out excitedly. "Er, I'm new here.. Yes, I want to fight. I'd rather it not be to the death, but I don't know what the custom is." Dethel replied in a slightly detached voice, while he was observing the room around him. It had what looked to be finely cut brick walls, and some strange material for a tile flooring. It had definitely taken quite a lot of money, and magic if the rumors were true, to create this large building. His thoughts were cut short as the monk replied, "Yes, its to the death, or until all combatants decide to quit. Shall I take you to a room, adventurer?"

Dethel licked his lower lip. He had taken life before, what was wrong with it now? There was no chance of him losing. He nodded towards the monk, and said, "Yes, that'd be quite nice... Do you have a fight for me already?" The monk grinned and motioned for him to follow as he took a fast paced walk towards a door. "Have fun, adventurer!" The monk said as he opened the door and half motioned/half pushed Dethel into the room.

The door shut behind him as he entered, and he drew his sword immediately, ready to fight. However, he was greeted with the sound of.... birds. Replacing the katana in its sheath, he walked through the trees, guided by the sound of calm water gurgling... It didn't take long for him to reach a small stream, surrounded by trees, birds, rabbits, and many forest things. However, his sweet surprise was interupted by the slam of a door not far off. It was his opponent no doubt, and he quickly scrambled up a tree, and out of view to most.

[Lord_Byron]

Berick stared up at the grand building. He took a swig of his Fire Rum before stumbling up the steps. He remembered taking a ride on a fishing boat from Scara Brae to Corone. The drunk had every intention of visiting his home village while he was here, but this seemed all the more pleasing to his demeanor. He had heard it told that here was where fighting happened. Berick suddenly wondered if it was anything like the Zirnden in Scara Brae. He hoped it was. He had liked that environment. Bar fights were his specialty.

As he stepped up to the door, he found himself leaning on it for support. He wondered if he should have waited to take that last drink for later on. He smiled to himself. The drunk pulled open one of the grand doors and stumbled on inside. The drunken brawler had a dumb smile on his face as he entered. A monk immediately saw him and came towards him.

"Can I help you sir?" The monk asked pleasantly, all the more excited to help one that did not look as though he would take on the world if the offer was given.

"Ah, yes you can direct me to a bartender, good fellow." The monk frowned at him and waved a hand in front of his face, obviously not fond of the smell coming from this man's breath.

"There are no bartenders here." He said flatly. "However, I will show you to a room. There you will fight. Hone your skills and develop your spirit in body and soul."

Berick shrugged and put his arm around the monk. "You are a good man. So very good. Not many would help one such as I to a room. You are right. Sleep helps the spirit. And the spirits help me sleep. Therefore I drink the spirits to help me sleep so that in the morning the spirits might awaken me and deliver me from darkness."

The monk blinked and then proceeded down the grand hallway. Had Berick not already been drunk, he might have found the expansive stone walls and the intricate paintings a marvel. But alas, with his deranged eye sight, he saw only a blur of colors. The drunk wasn't so sure he wasn't fond of the pretty colors.

The monk's robes flowed as he hurried along, helping Berick walk when needed. The pious young man was in a state of confusion as to how one so drunk would be able to survive in a fight. He thought to ask, but figured the man would be in no sound mind to give him a coherent reply.

"Here you are. There is someone waiting inside already. And do be careful." The monk glanced down at Berick's sword. "Be very careful..." With that, the monk scurried off to help others.

Berick stood at the doorway for a moment, studying the plain wooden door. He smiled at it as though it had told him a funny joke. The drunk opened the door and walked through...

What he saw when he walked through was unbelievable. Somehow he had come into a forest. Berick looked behind him to find that the door no longer existed. The drunk wondered if it had ever really been there. He tried to rationalize how he had gotten into a forest. Nonetheless, he gave up his thoughts and stumbled through the trees. Before long he reached a stream where he could hear the chirping of birds and the croaks of unseen frogs. He ambled up to the stream and then sat down. He stared at his reflection until his head started to spin. He wondered if it was the water, or his drunken vision, making his reflection swim. He assumed it was both.

Berick took a deep breath and sat staring at the water. He didn't know who or what he was supposed to fight, so he simply waited to see what would happen. No sense in working himself harder than necessary. He pulled his pack off and set it next to the stream, and then adjusted the scabbard at his hip so that it was more comfortable to sit down. And he waited...

[Twylyght]

Dethel sat crouched in the tree. It was a large oak, and he had his left arm higher up, grasping a branch, and his feet firmly planted on a long extremity of the tree. Leaf cover clouded around him, providing apt camouflage, and allowing him to look out without being seen. His right arm stayed on his katana, his eyes wide, scouting for the new threat.

Pin pointing the sound of foot steps on the slightly moist grass, he focused his eyes on the unsure step of a man. Watching this man with an emotion close to confusion, he tried to figure out why he was walking strangely, and why he was smiling like he was... Ah, Dethel concluded, that's it. He's drunk.

Wondering why a drunk man was here, he eyed his equipment. He had a pack, a pole, a sword, some leather armor, and what looked to be a lot of large brass rings. They were obviously for hand to hand combat. However this man was drunk, Dethel could perceive no way how he would be able to fight intelligently. He would definitely be able to pack a punch, but as long as Dethel used his agility and the terrain, he should be able to kill this man without much trouble.

Slowly and silently taking out his katana, he grasped the lower branch with his left hand. Sort of hopping out of the tree, he let himself hang down, behind his walking opponent, and then dropped down to land gracefully on his feet, producing a small sound no drunk man could hear. Then, silently pacing behind the man, he watched as the man set down his pack, and sat down. He closed to the distance, but stayed crouch, so as not to leave a reflection in the water.

He had his katana in front of him, and should be out of vision. It wouldn't be very hard to simply kill this man. However, he did want some sport out of the man, so instead of stabbing him he slammed the hilt down towards the man's head, in an attempt to deal a somewhat stunning blow. Then, backing up a bit, he held is katana out in front of him, ready to counter.

[Lord_Byron]

Berick's head reeled with the alcohol's effect on his stomach. He took a deep breath and that was all he could take. He lurched forward to empty the contents of his stomach into the stream when he received a sharp crack between his shoulder blades. As soon as that happened, his head came up and he hollared in pain.

In a quick moment, Berick had his sword out and he was standing before a man with a katana drawn. His fists clenched around his sword. His anger built up inside of him, fueled by the alcohol that still coursed through his veins, despite emptying the excess into the stream.

Inundated with the drunken rage that was inside of him, Berick's vision went from seeing double to aligning once again to focus on his singular purpose. This man obviously had no sense of honor, which was not so unlike Berick. He did what was necessary to win. Berick suddenly found this man to be intriguing. But as interesting as he was, he would beat him first, then discuss moral stantards.

With raging abandon, Berick thrust his sword directly for the man's abdomen. He was not ready for a slash, that would give him too much of an opportunity to strike. Berick smiled as he did so, looking very much like a mad man.

[Twylyght]

Although he had meant to hit the man's head with the sword, Dethel guessed that below the neck was just as painful. As he leapt back he saw the contents of the man's stomach drift by in the water, but before he could be repulsed by the stench that wafted to his nose and the sight, he had an incoming attack to deal with.

The man had looked at him for a second, apparently infuriated by Dethel's lack of introduction, and had lunged with a sword at Dethel, with an insane smile on his face. Dethel quickly brought his sword down to parry the attack, but the mad man's lunge was much to built up to be deflected. Not expecting to have to dodge, Dethel made a sort of half hop, but still felt the blade stick through his leather and caress his skin, leaving a definite sting.

It couldn't be a deep cut, but it was a cut nonetheless. Annoyed that his drunken opponent had managed to possibly draw first blood, he backed up a half-step more to fully evade the lunge, and then turned sideways, so that he was to the right of the sword, and jumped forward, with a deft but light swing at the man's head.

He did not mean to badly wound his target this early, but possibly leave a scratch on the cheek, or some other treat for the man to remember him by. The quick slash had put him off balance however, and he was open to attack.

[Lord_Byron]

Berick, in his drunken stupor walked right into the waiting attack. While not a heavy blow, the cut on his cheek went to the bone. Blood flowed freely from the wound, and Berick winced with the pain. Tears came on their own accord as the pain took true hold on him. The drunk didn't even have the sense to wipe off any of the blood that was dripping down the side of his face and down his jaw line. Such a thing just never occurred to him.

Berick, not having much more to do than to continue to try and fight, willed himself to stay standing. Between the pain that shocked him between his shoulder blades, and now the nice gash he had in his cheek, his energy was quickly leaving him. He only wished he could have a drink. The brawler found that a funny thing to think about when he was about to die. A small smile crept onto his face.

Berick fumbled around with his sword, trying to find a grip that was comfortable for him. He was quickly losing his ability to see only one target. Constantly the image of his opponent was changing. Sometimes he saw one, and sometimes he saw two. Berick shook his head of white hair hoping to clear his vision, but it helped very little. If only he could take a drink.

Pulling once again from his rage, he decided to do something completely stupid. The alcohol took effect and he was unable to keep reason inside his mind. With a great heave, Berick threw his sword at his assailant. He cared little about whether it hit or not. He was after one thing. The drunk man was thirsty.

As his sword left his hands, Berick half-ran, half-stumbed to his pack which had latched onto a rock and was bobbing on top of the slow babbling stream. When he finally got to it, he grabbed the nearest bottle he could and popped the stopper. He took several swigs of the bitter liquid. It was Slack Jaw. He smiled at the taste.

With the alcohol moving through his system once more, he found that he could stand up, if not a little shaky. He slipped his hands into the brass knuckles and flexed his hands, waiting for the imminent counterstrike.

[Twylyght]

Dethel smirked as he took a step back from his target and spun around, using the momentum he had from the slash. He had his sword out, and was ready to deliver another slash, maybe around the chest, but his opponent was running away when he turned around... And the man's sword was soaring at Dethel's head. Luckily for Dethel, it was the handle that hit his head, and not the blade.

He fell back from the impact, the sword popping upwards from the smash. The blade however didn't keep moving, it simply went up. And what went up had to come down. Swearing profusely, Dethel quickly rolled over to his right, and not more than two inches away the sword plopped into the ground where his head had been a second earlier.

Exhaling quickly, he rolled forward and got up quickly, sword pointed towards the man who had stood up after another drink. Stepping backwards towards the man's sword, he took it out of the ground, and hefted it with his left hand onto his shoulder.

He cocked his head, and threw it down towards the ground in front of the man's feet, and let it sink into the ground for him to take. He waited a few seconds, and took a step and then a lunge, simular to the man's first attack, at the man's lower chest.

[Lord_Byron]

Berick smiled like a fool as the hilt of the sword smacked his opponent in the face. The smile, however, didn't last long as the man threw the sword back at him to stick into the ground in front of him. The drunk thought to pick the sword up again, but he couldn't seem to get his eyes to focus on the hilt, so he let it stay in the ground for the time being. He glared at the sword as if it had betrayed him.

The sounds of the birds echoed through his head and caused a painful throbbing in the back of the head. He knew from experience that he was drinking too much, so he reminded himself not to take another drink for awhile. His cheek burned with pain as blood still seeped through the wound that had been inflicted by a daring attempt by his advarsary. Even to smile it hurt. The drunk managed to wonder how long the scar would last on his face.

As the attack from his opponent came to him, he quickly slipped his fingers into the brass knuckles in his pockets, and in an act of desperation, let himself fall straight on his back, a move that looked to be more due to his drunken state than any innovative ideas. He hit his back hard on the ground, and as the lunge came, he swiftly kicked out with his right foot at his opponent's groin area.

[Twylyght]

Lunging somehow made Dethel feel the pain in his forehead again, and he nearly fell over, but kept his balance. The shock of being hit by a drunk man's sword had momentarily clouded over the pain, but it was now back in full force, and it felt like his fore-head was splitting apart.

He sort of wondered how a pain could be not felt for a second, but the sudden jab of hurt made him blink and have a momentary burst of confusion, and he was oblivious to his opponent's ill-founded attack. He snapped back a half second later, a half-second too late, and retained his balance but received the full force of the man's kick.

He fell backwards in pain, nearly dropping his katana, and his left hand grabbed his crotch in agony. He clentched his teeth and swore loudly, but used his sword to steady himself as he got into a kneel, and then stood up uneasily.

Removing his left hand, and gripping his sword tensely, he spat down at his opponent, and let his right arm pivot around in a harse swing at the grounded man. He took a step forwards as he slashed, aiming at the downed man's stomach. Dethel's lust for sport was gone, and his urge for revenge was roaring.

[Lord_Byron]

Berick was surprised at the man's ability to shake off such a blow to the groin. He was up and attacking again before the drunk could register the fact that he was still on the ground. The katana came whirring down at him, seeming in slow motion. Berick closed his eyes and rolled to the right. He thought he was quick enough, but was caught hard by the blade in the side, cutting through his leather jacket and slicing his side open. The wound was moderately deep. It would have been worse, had the leather not protected him slightly.

Pain flushed through him again as he felt as though the fight was slipping out of control. He had only fought for his life once, and he had not done well with that. This man was slightly more skilled than Valient, and he was not reacting well. The alcohol inside of him made his movements slow and labored. The flames of pain didn't help the matter, but sobered him up a bit.

He pushed himself slowly up to his feet, his right hand clutching his side. Blood seeped through his fingers and down his side. The drunk clenched his teeth against the pain. Squirrels rushed along the trees watching the fight as if they were truly interested. Berick, didn't notice them, but heard them in the trees. His main focus was on the man that wanted to kill him.

Berick's thoughts suddenly drifted from his wounds to his jacket. It had been an expensive commodity and wasn't happy about it now being ruined. He scowled at his opponent and shook a fist at him. It was a strange thing to do in a fight that seemed as though it would only end with the death of him.

"This jacket was expensive." Berick stated as the fingers of his left hand probed the tear. "Obviously you wouldn't know that."

The man was unsure what to do next. He glanced down at the lush green grass at his feet, and then at the trickling stream that ran near to the fighters. He took a deep breath and stepped towards it. Then he stopped, as if changing his mind. The drunk could never seem to make up his mind when he was feeling the effects of alcohol.

Finally, Berick grinned and with a burst of energy charged at his opponent. He led with his left fist, acting as if he would deliver a stunning punch, but at the last moment jumped towards his attacker, hoping to tackle him to the ground and eliminate his advantage. Berick was talented at fighting people on the ground. In drunken brawls, that was where most of the participaters ended up, afterall.

[Twylyght]

Dethel felt a surge of confidence as his attack hit harsly. He withdrew his now blood-stained katana, and held it off a little to his side, giving his opponent time to get up. He could have probably continually attacked, leaving his opponent no opening, but now that he had had a little revenge he was back to wanting a real fight.

His mind changed quickly, as he was probably not what one might call a born assassin. He did not take pride in his killing, nor much pleasure. He generally expressed little emotion, regaurdless of how fickle he was on the inside. Casting aside his thoughts, he looked back over his opponent. It appeared to Dethel that with his last attack he was winning, as his opponent was more hurt than Dethel himself was.

Repressing a grin, he restrained himself from attacking the weakened man as he got off the ground. He slowly began to back up, hoping that the simple distance of walking would tire the man more. The man began to run at Dethel, and Dethel disreguarded his earlier concept of victory, and got ready to attack. Before he was prepared however, his opponent launched himself into the air in a tackle aimed straight at Dethel.

Had Dethel moved a second faster, he could have held out his katana in front of him and the man would have impaled himself. Alas, this was not the outcome, and as Dethel was pushed backwards with the added weight on top, he dropped his katana at his side.

As he hit the ground he made a muffled groan, and blinked hard, trying to supress the pain from the impact from the ground. Taking his right fist off to the side, he brought it inwards in an attempt to punch the man in the left side of the head, in order to get him off Dethel.