Division 1: Fallen King vs. RPS & Po

[Ther]

This match-up will last until 8 P.M. E.S.T. on 2/23/07. Remember, if you finish your battle early, I can score you early - and finishing early is a good, good thing always.

Best of luck!

[Fallen King]

“How the hell did you get into the cargo hold? Get up you bum and get the fuck out.”

Vernon Lenore woke up tired, angry, slightly hung over and still mostly drunk as a large man in wearing thick cotton cloths and leather boots and gloves grabbed him roughly. The former mixed martial arts champion didn’t bother to respond, not even as the figure along along with another similarly dressed man grabbed him and threw him out of where ever the hell he was into the cold night air. His alcohol-inhibited mind was too busy trying to figure out what was going

“Ugh, where the hell am I?”

The drunkard didn’t remember much about the night. The last thing he remembered was getting piss drunk off some cheap, watered down booze in some dingy bar in the slums of Radasanth. After that it was a blur. He remembered wondering outside, pissing on the side wall of the bar in an alleyway. And then it started to rain. He remembered the rain in Radasanth, cold, hard and unrelenting. It had made his cloak wet, his body cold and its sound and caused an annoying pounding in his booze filled head. He remembered finding shelter in some metal building filled with crates.

“Ah shit.”

Then it dawned on him. That metal building filled with crates must have actually been a ship transporting stuff to god knows where. Vernon Lenore had gotten piss drunk and passed out in the cargo hold of some goddamn cargo ship that could be going any place on Althanas. The fallen king of the mixed martial arts world had certainly done some stupid things, though this had to be by far the dumbest. Well second dumbest at least. Unfortunately he had no idea how long he had been asleep, though the fact that he was still mostly drunk was an indication that it hadn’t been more than a few hours, maybe six or seven at the most. That meant that the only other clue was the weather.

The weather was cold; very cold, and snowy. The stars and moon above shone brightly and provided good light in the night though virtually no warmth. The wind howeled harshly, sending chills through Vernon’s body. Luckily as he reached into one of the pockets of his jacket he realized he at least had something to keep him warm, one third of a bottle of cheap scotch.

As he stumbled through the cold night of where ever the hell he was, drunk and cold, yet also trying to figure out what was going on he accidentally bumped into someone. A rich noble clad in fine silks, linens and animal furs and adorned on all sides by people of similar nobility. The silver haired, green-eyed pretty boy didn’t seem very happy about some drunken bum bumping into him. As was evident by the words that spilled out of his mouth.

“Watch it you bum. Don’t you know better than to disrespect nobility by bumping into me like this? I should have the guards throw you in jail for public intoxication,” came the rich youth's words. The nobel’s voice reaked of a sense of superiority that quite frankly pissed Vernon off.

Not too long ago Vernon had been in this youth’s position. He had had more money than most people would ever see. He had been adorned in lavish cloths, eaten at fancy restaurants, rubbed elbows with celebrities and was one of the most well known humans in Radasanth. Of course this was all before he pissed off the Radasanth Crime Syndicate and they beat the hell out of him, burned his house down with all his possestions in it and tarnished his name beyond repair. Still he had once been great so even though he had been reduced to nothing but a drunken bum, he still deserved some respect right? He figured he did at least and in with such a high blood alcohol content he was dumb enough at that moment to actually believe it.

“Go screw yourself you pompous piece of shit,” responded Vernon angrily.

His response was greeted with a silver long sword being pointed at his throat, so close that it was actually a bit painful. Of course the man holding the sword was obviously the rich youth that Vernon had just insulted.

“You filthy bum, I ought to speak cut you down for simply thinking such words about me. Do you have any idea who I am?”

Of course Vernon didn’t though judging from the youth’s reaction it was clear that it was going to be a long fucking night.

[Iain]

Peace was an elusive commodity in these times. It was only a few weeks since Iain had left Harondale, all but thrown out by the church, all but chained to the walls by his parents to prevent his leaving. Every aspect of his life had been, in one swift decree from some pompous old priest in a law that was so outdated it was obsolete, torn asunder and shat on. By name he was Sir Iain Detrius of Harondale, but in reality he had neither house nor rank to call his own.

A lord without a fiefdom, Iain was. A wandering knight. How could one raised to be the best he could be, to become a contender in the aristocratic world of Salvar, perhaps even all of Althanas, adjust to the life of a vagrant warrior, selling his sword for a bite to eat and a place to lay his head? If you asked him, Iain would tell you. He hadn’t a clue.

His mind was a mess. His train of thought, if you wished to use that metaphor, was careening down an uncertain path, where the slightest swerve in the track could cause it to crash and burn. There was a lot of tension holed up inside Iain: anger at the church, forbidden resentment against the largest power in the nation of Salvar. Homesickness. An empty feeling, a hole where his home and family used to live that now was nothing more than vacant space. Iain was a coiled spring, winding tighter by the second, and soon enough he would have to release all of his personal stress, likely through a means that would be harmful to himself as well as those around him.

And then there was an explosion of sound in the middle of the road. It was late, or maybe it was early, Iain had lost all sense of time. When he turned to find the source of the commotion, the scene that presented itself to the knight seemed like some sort of dramatic interpretation of a children’s storybook. Here stands a noble, regal in manner and dress, standing with sword drawn and entourage cheering him on. Here stands the drunkard. A tall man, with an unkempt beard, not visibly armed, in a tattered leather jacket. He reeked of smoke and booze.

And had just called the noble a piece of shite. Now, it seemed, that same noble had more than half a mind to remove his insulting tongue with his sword, stomp on it with his expensive embroidered hide boots, and shove it up the drunkard’s arse. Such a scene, full of tension and imminent bloodshed, was the last straw. The one that broke the back of the proverbial camel, and let loose the flood of angst that had been brewing within Iain for a while.

“Yeah, who do you think you are? Only one of noble birth may insult someone of the upper class! You pompous arse, I wouldn’t give you the scraps of my dinner, not even if they had fallen on the floor and been pizzled by the tavern’s watchdog. You aren’t worth the breath to insult further. Draw, if you please, or proceed knowing that I gave you the opportunity to arm yourself.”

The noble who had been initially insulted was taken aback by this flow of vulgarities coming from the mouth of one dressed like a lord. He retreated to his posse of lesser nobles and they all watched, with an eager eye, the fight that was sure to unfold before them.

[Fallen King]

I forfeit due to lack of interest.

[Max Dirks]

Iain advances to round two!