Floods, flags, and fights. (Closed)

[Christoph]

A deafening roar exploded from the Citadel as the crowds cheered with excited anticipation. The audience packed every inch of the surrounding stands and looked down at a rare display of opulence. The massive floor of the arena in the center was nowhere to be found; in its place was an impressive man-made lake. The stadium had been completely flooded with water, filled to just below the lowest row of audience seats. Eight single level replicas of Corone naval vessels, complete with single square sails, occupied this newly created aquatic amphitheater, arrayed so that two with matching flags floated idle in each corner. The banging of gongs, the beating of drums, and the bold fanfare of trumpets ascended the thunder from the horde of spectators, calling out for their attention. Once the audience quieted slightly, the dark, haunting tones of the flanking and hunting horns came through under the trumpets to create a majestic and triumphant chord. Finally, a great voice boomed from a box at the far end of the arena.

“People of Corone, travelers, and adventurers!” addressed the voice to the audience. It was a deep, male voice that had a hint of the impression that the speaker was used to being listened to, and added dramatic tones for his own sake. Still, the crowds ate it up and answered with an enthusiastic applause. “You have come here to see the greatest spectacle of your lives and you will not be disappointed! For we have assembled the greatest display of warriors and scoundrels to grace our humble arena in some time for your entertainment! Shall I introduce the forces fighting for great riches?” The crowd cheered in agreement.

“Ah, yes! I can see that you are all raring to get this started! I like that!” The booming voice laughed heartily. “Very well then. In the north-eastern corner, we have the scoundrels of Concordia: The Rangers!” A mixed and uncertain reaction followed as spectators tried to decide whether they were supposed to show support or disdain for the team meant to represent the Rangers. The voice was not troubled, though.

“And in the north-western corner, from all parts of the world, we have the men with no loyalties save that of the coin: the merciless band of mercenaries!” About one third of the crowd laughed, another third booed, and the final third cheered. “In the South-western corner, we have our very finest: the great navy of Corone!” This was followed by a thunderous, and to an extent obligatory, cheer.

* * * * *

Christopher stood quietly on the damp wooden deck of one of the boats in the arena. He stared blankly into the distance, rarely blinking, as the music played and the announcer made the introductions. He clenched his teeth in a vain attempt to keep from shaking. His entire appearance was utterly miserable; his face was cut up and dirty, his normally white chef coat was wet, filthy, and covered with bloodstains, and his hair was in a similar state. What in the hell am I doing here? He asked himself this as the announcer finally finished.

“And finally, in the South-Eastern corner, we have the scoundrels from the east! I give you, the pirates of Hooligan’s Cove!” A round of boos directed in Christopher’s general direction followed and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. How nice. The irritating announcer continued. “Who will prove victorious? Let the battle begin!”

“Oh right, I remember,” said Chris quietly to himself as rowers on his boat began slowly propelling the craft forward. It started when he’d left his home town in Salvar three months prior to take care of some business on behalf of his mother’s tavern. (Striking deals with suppliers, warehouse owners, and shippers) Everything was going fine until he left Scara Brae and arrived in Corone. Soon after enter Radisanth, a girl tried to rob him, resulting in a scuffle in an alley – with knives, swords, and whips, of course.

Apparently, the guards don’t take kindly to that sort of thing. They promptly tried arresting the two of them. Naturally, he and the girl ran off ran off. He thought it would be safe to return to the city a week later and quietly see to his business before returning home. Unfortunately, fate decided to give the chef a cruel smack in the face that day; one of the guards somehow recognized him and the girl. After trying unsuccessfully to run again, Chris did the noble thing and allowed the guards to catch him so the girl could escape. Looking back, he couldn’t understand why he would have done something so stupid. He had hoped that he would only have been thrown in jail for a few days. Unfortunately, given the current civil unrest in Corone, they were significantly harsher; he was to be made an example of. They gave him a choice. He could either spend a full year in prison, or he could take part in an “upcoming event” at the Citadel. He wasn't fully aware of what the Citadel even was at the time; he was beginning to piece it together, though.

Chris sighed, trying to shake the anxiety. It was looking as though he’d a very poor choice. A year in a prison was better than dying! He didn’t want to die here! He calmed himself; he couldn’t panic or else he would most certainly not survive this. True, he’d been in life or death situations before, but those were never self-inflicted and usually involved running away. To make matters even worse, his favored dueling sword and chef knives had been confiscated. The odd people in charge of the fight gave him a small throwing spear that he barely knew how to use and a falchion with a weight distribution and shape that was significantly different than his light, balanced dueling blade. He would need to keep his wits to survive.

[Nein]

To be fair,

It is among few men the ability to resist the alluring temptations of an entire account of gold pieces, never mind the enduring promise of devout praise and fame. So even despite the amount of drink that had found itself within him that night, it was hardly upon him to turn down such a prosperous offer of material assistance.

Besides, how was he to pay the tab?


In a great thunderous chorus of strained voices and beating hands, an arena of men and women alike filled every sense that contained Drenn - tearing him from the absent lingering of his true purpose. This was no night, and this was no tavern; the treacherous terms of battle had already been agreed upon.

As the deck lurched uncomfortably, the young man shifted to regain his balance. Within the battered hull, deep groans echoed and gave way to another pitch of the light vessel. Lingering in the air was the bitter taste particular to sea waters; clear from the foggy brine that made the ‘field’.

As far as adventurers and explorers became, few were intent on being in the midst of that they explored. Found in a self concerning smirk was the concept that experience had to be found somewhere; and if not within the confines of the Citadel, then where else?

Surely not the tavern, nor the church… nor the jail.


“And in the north-western corner, from all parts of the world, we have the men with no loyalties save that of the coin: the merciless band of mercenaries!”

Pumping an ironed fist into the air brought down mixed applause, where the intensity of his appearance and rumours of his paid acts would strike silence into others. Drenn was no mercenary, yet few others here were what they represented - all paid in similar coin. It was for the People, regardless, little else mattered when they believed their eyes and ears so faithfully.

Complementing his attitude was the array of armaments given to him before the battle. Glancing over the crowds through the slits of a fierce gladiatorial steel helm, Drenn stood bare chested to enhance his barbaric image, save a single steel pauldron across his right shoulder.

Why not?

Six teams of men, upon six various vessels, each eager to fight to death over victory. As the concern of fatally shortened mortality was no longer present, a little pain was well worth the winnings. Besides, who else could make a leather skirt look that good?


As the ship lurched forward under row, he looked to a man opposite himself, giving a nod of recognition as his reluctant teammate. In response, the similarly fashioned mercenary thrust his trident towards their opposition.

Drenn did the same; thrashing the common sword length of his own weapon against the reddish brown wooden shield they were both given. Battle was upon them…

[Christoph]

There’s something about being forced to fight on a boat that really makes my hatred for these creaky floating coffins resurface. I’ve never much cared for them. It is beyond me as to why so many people find it appealing to live on a rocking ship, with bad food, cramped spaces, irritating weather, and sailors with poor senses for cleanliness and disturbing sodomy-related tendencies. (So I’ve heard... I just sleep in corners to be on the safe side)

On a brighter note, after I had gotten myself tossed into the citadel, I was too busy being afraid for my life for my cynical side regarding boats to become an issue. I was a little worried about dying. (I didn’t know any better at the time)

Oh, who am I kidding? Even the fear of death wasn’t enough to make me like boats...

~From the memoirs of Christopher Knighton


By the gods, I hate boats, Chris thought as the wooden craft moved purposefully forward. I don’t even like eating on them, let alone fighting--

The unwilling gladiator’s episode of self-pity was suddenly interrupted by the alarmed shouts of the other fighters in his boat. His gaze darted instinctively upward in time for him to spot a large shaft of wood and metal that had been fired out of a ballista from one of the “Corone Navy” vessels. Crying out in alarm, Chris sprung himself backwards just in time to avoid being skewered. Chris landed on his backside and covered his face with his arms as the massive arrow smashed into the deck and sprayed him with splinters and needles of wood. Luckily, they only caused superficial cuts. He struggled to his feet as some of the other fighters on the boat laughed behind him. Chris grumbled and turned to face them.

“What? Was I supposed to catch it and throw it back at them?” asked the chef bitterly. Jerks... what do they know? I didn’t even want to be here in the fi-- A loud crunching thud once again cut off Christopher’s internal monologue as yet another ballistae bolt impacted the boat, this time hitting and penetrating the outer hull. He clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes.

“Damn it! Can I please just finish a thought around here?” said Chris angrily, not meaning to say it out loud. He blushed a little bit and shifted awkwardly. Well... at least they’re not laughing at me anym-- He stepped backwards as a thrown spear, courtesy of the other “Corone Navy” boat that was making a pass at their starboard side, narrowly missed his face. “Gah! I give up!”

Chris scrambled around as more spears flew at his rickety boat, sticking into flesh and wood and causing chaos. He spun around to return fire with his own spear, mimicking the other fighters on his team. He was unsuccessful in his attempt, however. On the bright side, he was able to make the spear reach the enemy vessel. Unfortunately, whatever target he’d been aiming at was clearly missed and the spear itself bounced harmlessly off the ship’s mast. The others warriors would have probably laughed at him if their boat wasn’t being boarded.

A dozen combatants from the first of the Corone Navy team’s vessels had jumped over from their ship as it grinded against the port side of Christopher’s boat. The boarding warriors wore breast-plates and feathered helmets that displayed the colors and insignia of Corone’s military (to help them look the part) and were armed with gleaming long swords and kite-shaped shields. The well-armed gladiators quickly engaged the small, unarmored host of pretend (and possibly even authentic in some cases) pirates. There was an intense struggle between the two forces, but it was clearly meant to be one-sided; the fighters on the pirate team stood little chance.

One of them did put up a fight, though. A small, lithe woman with dark hair and skin darted between the armored warriors and penetrated their defenses and slitting the throat of one before he could react. Another fell as she rammed a broken spear into the soldier’s neck. This lasted for but a moment before a thrown spear from the boat on their starboard side impaled her from behind; the brief voice of hope had been silenced.

For a few moments, none of the ruthless, armored fighters to even noticed Chris standing against his boat’s mast. When a steel visor turned to face him, however, he realized that his respite had been short-lived. Quickly switching his falchion to his right hand and testing its weight in his grip, he crouched slightly as his new foe approached him. He faked a lunge and side-stepped in a frantic attempt to get around the warrior’s shield. He failed to strike with the heavy falchion quickly enough, though, and his opponent’s shield smashed across his face. Chris sprawled backward and hit the deck painfully. The other warrior was upon him quickly. The chef was forced to roll to the left to avoid the man’s sword.

It was only then that Chris noticed the crowds again. They were cheering... cheering as the “Corone Navy” butchered the others on his team. It was propaganda, after all; those predetermined to be the good guys had to be victorious. He grit his teeth, ready to defy it. The chef rolled to the left again and scrambled to his feet just in time to raise his blade to block his foe’s sword strike. Another shield bash, this time in the gut, forced Chris back again and pushed the air from his lungs. He continued to withdraw and step back, desperately defending himself as his vision spun around him, until he felt the ship’s railing against his legs. He was out of places to run. It seemed to be over for him--but wait!

Of course! It’s so cliché that it HAS to wor--OW! Chris felt the shield impact his face once again. He growled spitefully, crouched as low as he could, and charged his opponent’s knees. The warrior reacted a little late and smashed his hilt painfully into Christopher’s back, but he forced himself to continue. He connected with the man’s legs, lifted up, and lunged backwards with all of his might. Both of them tumbled over the edge of the ship.

[Nein]

“COVER! TAKE COVER!”

Courage, honour, and valour were among the characteristics enforced in any situational military; as is leadership. However, considering it was this specific trait that eluded a younger, rougher and more brutish man by the name of Drenn, one could argue that in obedience and discipline true leadership isn’t entirely necessary.

Now within the tears of sweat torn from the toil of man, this boy turned mercenary would find that commanding leadership lost in wandering travel and fall to instinct. Shouts echoed down the line of varied warriors, and Drenn’s ear caught further orders bellowed now from one distinct source.

As a soldier, he was ready.


As a warrior, he was willing.


It was to the man and his flesh; his muscle and sinew as it heaved the weighty shield into position and held fast to repell the incoming attack.
Utilizing past tactic, Drenn dropped to his knee, bracing upon the deck against-

Thwip, thwip.

Broad headed arrows were often the cause of heavy internal damages, easily tearing through unprotected flesh and light armour alike. Perhaps this was why some of the men screamed as they did, not at all human but in the most primitive fashion. Still it was few, and the mercenaries responded to the volley of arrows in a unified roar.

Glancing through the darkened slits of his helm, Drenn dared only to peer out as the rangers reloaded with practiced ease. Orders echoed down the line again, yet it was not the archers this Fallien native was concerned about. As either ship sped through the foggy waters of the field, they grew closer to each other, at sharper angles.

“COVER! HOLD YOUR COVER!”

It was within the gentle flit of passing arrows that one could find peace. It ensured that all attempts to strike you down had failed, and you remained unscathed. Still, even the heavy blows against his shield failed to daunt the man. Glancing over the rounded cover, several shafts found themselves awkwardly sunk and Drenn looked down the line of men. Not a single casualty resulted of the volley; instead, each raised their sword and shield to taunt the emerald clad Rangers beyond them.

[Christoph]

Sploosh!

Uncomfortably entangled, Christopher and his armored foe tumbled haphazardly over the railing of the boat and into the water. The elation brought on by the seeming brilliance of his plan quickly transformed itself into desperation as the air around him vanished. The unwilling gladiator’s crimson-clad adversary had latched onto him before going over, taking him along for the ride and causing both of them to hit the water at a painful angle.

He kicked and fought with the fury of angry mule as the heavy, armored warrior tried bringing both of them down while sinking. Chris was amazed at just how calm the other warrior was as they drifted further and further from the water’s surface. It was as though he had no fear of dying. Chris, however, did have that fear. It gave him strength. He battled for his life against his enemy’s grip, pounding against his helmet with the hilt of his falchion. It seemed to be no use, however. His foe refused to let go; his lungs burned for air; his vision began to blur as the salty water seared his eyes. His world faded into painful blackness.

Gasp!

Christopher’s head burst from the water, the air a divine mercy rushing into his lungs. It could have been the foulest stench of the sewers – it would have still seemed like the sweet, crisp air of the mountain forests. His vision and sense of awareness slowly returned and precious oxygen renewed his deprived body and mind. The black veil shrouding his vision faded, allowing him to see the splintered and cracked side of a wooden boat skirting across the water in front of him. Impossible! He had managed to escape his foe’s grasp! Surely he was lucky to be alive.

Chris then realized that he was holding the now drowned warrior’s shield in his arms. He must have pulled it off his opponent’s arm while struggling to escape. Surprisingly, it wasn’t weighing him down in the water; it was probably made mostly of wood. While it certainly couldn’t pass as a flotation device of any kind, it would be worth hanging onto. Still, he was not out of the water yet, metaphorically or literally. He didn’t know where in the arena he was, what was going on in the fight, or whose boat was in front of him. It wasn’t the pirate team boat that he’d fallen from; he knew this because it lacked the ballistae bolts in the hull. He could hear the sound of arrows hitting wood… and people.

Well, there’s only one way to find out… He swam closer to the boat’s hull, struggling to move in the water with both hands occupied. It took much more energy than he’d expected, forcing him to stop to catch his breath before reaching the side of the ship. After considering his next action for a moment, Chris rammed the falchion that he was given into a crack in the wood. He used it as leverage to heft himself up out of the water and climb to the railing.

Thwunk!

With a grunt, Chris climbed his way up the side of the boat. Because of the craft’s small size, his blade was able to provide the platform he needed. Amazingly, none of the archers on the other nearby ship seemed to take notice of the lone gladiator scaling the side of the vessel. Christopher was actually quite proud of himself for devising a method of getting out of the water and onto a craft. Of course, as soon he tumbled onto the wooden deck, it occurred to him that the occupants would almost definitely be hostile.

Being crafty is overrated.

[Nein]

It was upon the people, each shout and holler reflection as the men aboard either ship turned away from the unforgiving impact. Oars crushed between hulls as splinters ricocheted between shields and armour. Scrambling for cover, the rangers drew shield and sword, desperate to recover from a devastating circumstance.

After all, now the battle lied with the Mercenaries.


As slaves unchained, every hired man aboard unleashed themselves upon the enemy deck and crew. Weapons sharp and cruel became the sea, and in such they were brought down against the hapless rangers with a mercenaries mercy. Demanding his own pace, Drenn had taken towards the seamless wall of shield laden soldiers; well ahead of his circumstantial brethren.

Step


Step

To find beauty in death, a feat bestowed upon the clamouring audience as a particular young mercenary left the deck, firmly planting his final steps against an emerald shield.


Over on-looking opposition he leapt, twisting sharply in the air and dropping a sheer vertical kick to the back of another mans unprotected skull. In a quite fatal display of athleticism, several pale faces looked up before the dark skinned man touched to the deck again.

Landing hard, he pivoted, now facing the unprotected side of an offguard defense. One unfamiliar weapon in his posession, Drenn slashed wide across the backs of many men. It was an amateur manoeuvre at best, succeeding only to distract while other mercenaries tore through the broken defense.

[Christoph]

The opening fanfare of the drums and horns above the arena had had transitioned to a fearsome war march during the battle. The crowds chanted, clapped, and stomped along with the percussive rhythms. The audience’s excitement was reaching a terminal intensity.

One of the two Pirate team boats had been boarded and taken over by the Corone Navy team. Ballistae bolts and catapults battered the other until it sank to the bottom of the arena. On the other side of the amphitheater, the Ranger and Mercenary teams were locked in a brutal struggle, neither having gained the upper hand. The Corone Navy team swiftly turned around and prepared to disrupt the balance.

The rising anticipation was nearly tangible in the air as the spectacle drew closer to its conclusion. Who would be the victor? Who is the audience really cheering for? Why is this so melodramatic? Are we actually paying this narrator?

* * * * *

With a creak and a hallow thud, Chris’s knees slammed on the deck of the boat he’d climbed onto. At the same time, the entire craft lurched from another impact that was accompanied by smashing and splintering wood. Two of the boats must have crashed against each other. As his spinning vision slowly came into focus, he heard the clashing of metal, the slashing of flesh, the breaking of bones, and cries of pain and rage. A fight was on… obviously.

A vicious melee was occurring on the other ship involved in the collision. Pretend Mercenaries had boarded a ship of pretend Rangers; the two sides were battling for dominance. Chris watched them and waited, even as the announcer and audience counted the Pirate team out. The chef turned gladiator swore that he would make the pompous orating voice eat its words. However, he would not rush off to his death to prove a point. Exhaling slowly, Christopher stood and strapped his stolen kite shield to his left arm. He would wait for them to come to him. He would go down fighting if he must, but he would go down fighting smart.

[Nein]

Fear:


It was that self preserving instinct that destroyed whatever honour and disciplines the Ranger’s once held. As every man scrambled to protect himself, they each forgot where their strength lay; in unity. Mercenaries thrived upon the chaos, targeting their helpless prey with such brutal efficiency that it caused the audience to roar out in applause, even despite the nature of these otherwise barbaric men.

No such luck could be found for one lone mercenary however, as three or four of the disrupted rangers had set vengeful sights upon Drenn. Together they advanced, each with a hating scowl upon his face. Without any sufficient skill in swordsmanship, the short encounter already found the blade forced from his hand.

Hiding behind the shield with certain desperation, Drenn could feel the threatening blows of swords against its surface. As the slaughter raged on, a single haphazard blow lowered their number another, though the remaining two refused to give. One strike after another they forced him back towards the open edge of the ship. Drenn had bid his time well, waiting for room before…


One swift strike with his shield would force the gritty Ranger away, leaving enough room for Drenn to twist towards his encounter, his far leg hooking around and striking the gritty Ranger upside the chin.

Turning to face the second Ranger, Drenn covered himself as the Ranger’s sword glanced off the marked surface of his shield. Spotting the opening, Drenn stepped towards his opponent and struck hard with a straight knee against his chest. Blood splattered his face as the second Ranger coughed, abruptly falling to the ground without further protest.

[Christoph]

Chris crouched shakily on the slick wooden deck of the vacant mercenary boat. The war drums high above the arena still played; they had become the heartbeat of the battle -- and that heart was racing. Bum bum bum badabum bum bum... The clashing of steel continued as the sounds of continued battle both distant and very near began to pierce the walls of his sanity.

After about a minute, the spinning in Christopher’s head slowed enough for the nausea to fade. Narrowly avoiding drowning, and death in general, a couple times tended to make him feel ill, for obvious reasons. Fortunately, recovery had begun. Hopefully it would actually make a difference; it probably wouldn’t. It did strike him as odd that nobody had noticed to him yet. Granted, the remaining fighters in the arena would probably have had more important things to deal with than a lone chef standing on an empty boat, trying to catch his breath.

The only potentially imminent danger was from the mercenaries on the adjacent boat. Their clash with the rangers hadn't been as mutually devastating as Christopher had hoped. The mercenaries' casualties had been irritatingly inadequate thus far in the skirmish; the few struggling rangers wouldn't last long. Any plan of biding his time, hoping that his potential enemies would decimate each other and only leave a handful for him to avoid or fight, quickly drowned just as he almost had.

Fate (otherwise known as that infuriating part of universal law that just likes to screw with people) had presented him with two nearly equally undesirable choices: he could either continue to wait until the mercenaries returned to their craft, get overwhelmed, and probably die, or he could quickly figure out some way of giving himself a fighting chance before they could return, probably fail, and die anyway. Those are my options? Damn... and I’m sure that I’ll go with the ‘die fighting’ routine. I hate clichés! Of course, he scarcely had a choice.

With that decision made, Chris quickly began formulating a way to fight while still achieving his goal of not dying. To his dismay, the only thing that he could come up with involved some spears that littered the abandoned deck. He almost cringed. Yes, he was doomed, but again, what choice did he have?

Without giving himself a chance to have second thoughts, he collected himself, switched his annoyingly heavy falchion to his left hand, and scooped a spear at random from the deck with his right and hurled it at one of the battling mercenaries several yards away. To his utter amazement, it actually flew straight at his target! It would surely attract the attention of just about everyone on the other boat, though.

On the bright side, he could always jump back into the water...

[Nein]

Instinct failed as this battle slowed, and within each passing second the young mercenary was better to organize his frenzied thoughts. Questioning purposes, honouring courage and duty, finding anger in apprehension; every inconsequential process of self preserving concepts now overwhelmed his still unformed thoughts. If not for the steady beating of his heavy heart, Drenn would collapse under the yoke of fear’s bated breath.

Exhaling deeply, he reaffirmed his position as once trained.


Whistle on the wind…


Clean and shallow, the wound preceded the pain.

In that lasting moment his face turned and the young man yelled out in frustration. All manner of cursing and blasphemy spat fourth from the man’s mouth before he stopped; instead producing hard, short breaths to regain control. Attempting to set aside an undeniable pain that now plagued his left arm, Drenn looked to the source.

“You…”

All the unimaginable panes of violence and unsettled hatred stirred within that lasting fierce stare. Where an untamed vengeance held his chest fiercely, the underlying pressure instilled a heavy sensation, as the invigorating sense of adrenaline coursed throughout his thick veins.

As twisted as his glaring features were, within them produced a more terrifying grin; an element that introduced a butchered sense of satisfaction against the mercenary’s more feral nature. So even through the shrill screams of wooden beasts, this ‘Drenn’ remained resolute in playing the lingering death of his still offending malefactor in tune with this rather cacophonous situation.


No warning preceded his initial movement, though within moments it became hard to follow. In the pitching of a slippery deck, the young man found opportunity, leaping with a gracing fluidity to upper level railing.


Upon it he ran, refusing to falter in step, before planting firmly on a banister end cap and leaving the ship itself.


Untouchable.



Crude falchion in one hand,


Light shield in the other,


and Still he wore the terrifying grin, already consumed by the desire for crimson decoration in his story of vengeance. It’s often been said that men lose themselves in the heat of battle, and so far, everything is so completely, and utterly true.

Our ugly truth.

[Christoph]

Chris felt the momentary surge of exhilaration course through him as his thrown spear struck home, or at least in home’s front yard. A brief smirk of satisfaction formed on his wet, battered, and tired face. The smile was truly a rose in a wasteland. His expression shifted immediately, though, as his target turned to face him with murderous eyes: a bear angry after being woken from its slumber.

At that moment, everything else faded away. A muffling veil was thrown over him. Nothing else was important enough to be noticed anymore; not the militaristic musical fanfare, the obnoxiously ostentatious announcer, or the surrounding sounds and smells of death and struggle. There was nothing else that Chris could do, either. The mercenary nearly flew from the adjacent boat toward him, closing the gap much too rapidly for the retrieval of a second spear to be possible. A challenge had been accepted.

Finding himself free from all other distractions, the sole survivor of the pirate team narrowed his eyes in defiance. His mercenary foe would soon be upon him and would offer no quarter; Chris would offer none as well; there was no room for it. There was room only for bold initiative and the taking of action to preserve one’s life.

The speed in which the mildly wounded mercenary cleared the distance was borderline amazing. Chris was reasonably convinced that this warrior, in a straight fight, would physically outmatch him. The man’s athleticism was clearly beyond normal. Since Chris could scarcely rely on his limited magical abilities, especially in his exhausted state, the only advantage he had was position – and even then, only if he seized it. Anything was worth an attempt.

In the face of a superior foe, the desperate gladiator jolted four steps forward while taking his falchion into his dominant hand once more. Each step brought him closer to a bloodthirsty opponent. Timing would need to be perfect -- it wouldn’t be, but it would need to come as close as possible. He would need to build up enough speed in those four steps to give his heavy and poorly balanced blade enough momentum for a definite killing blow – he wouldn’t arrive at that pace, but he would force himself to dig deep for the strength. His attack would need to be carefully thought out and calculated – such things required time that he did not have, so he would execute the maneuver with instincts and pray for luck.

And so, the slash came an instant before the mercenary’s feet hit the deck of the otherwise empty wooden boat. The tarnished blade hacked forth with a horizontal forehand motion, filled with every ounce of piety, fortune, and desperation its wielder could muster.

[Nein]

No regret.

Towards the ferry man, he had leapt; this young mercenary drew on death as he neared his assailant. And yet, through the slowing ethereal beat of a distant heart, iridescent silver fingers stole away the once lost fare, carefully jading the corporeal perceptions of time in utter defiance of physical law for the unlikely redemption of a single mortal soul. Unaware the untapped potential that stretched beyond him, the brazen man of brilliant tears relied on instinct as it carried him forthwith the fray…



Cover.

In search of a truer percussion, the shrill note of forged steel grinding against similar substance would assume accompaniment to a hollow tone of bass, just as the young mercenary touched solid oak. Intuition would only serve him so well, until ability took hold in manipulation of self, throwing his lithe figure to away in a gracing dive – abetted only through angular momentum and the mustered force of a devastating blow to a shield in hand.

Conversation was reserved for acquaintances; this was finality’s finest hour.

Wasting little time in his refined recovery, Drenn led his confrontation with a reserved physical prowess, closing the slight gap between them with ease. It was within moments that he was upon the opposing man, shield low and accompanying armament outstretched in superfluous emphasis that clumsily betrayed his intention.

All in good time.

[Christoph]

There it was: the state of being completely lost in the elating desperation of melee. To Chris’s surprise, all semblances of his usual mordant humor faded away into the violent drums, leaving instincts and the cold, calculated mentality of battle to fill the vacuum of his psyche. The surrounding noise swirled and distorted inside of him until it became as a roaring fire in his mind.

Thunk!

The tired chef’s opponent blocked the inept strike of his falchion with an uncomfortable level of ease. Was this was due to his lack of experience and ability with his own weapon, or was it because his opponent was simply physically superior to such a degree? In all likelihood, it was some of both. For an instant he stood, tracking his opponent’s rapid and dexterous lunge. Step. Pivot.

Efficient motions kept the fighting chef face to face with his foe. When the long-expected assault finally arrived, he was shocked at just how easy the action was to read. Such an overly elaborate and practically decorative attack made little sense coming from the skilled warrior that this man clearly was, particularly after displaying a pattern of proficient and efficient motions prior to that moment. The warrior’s thrust impacted the chef’s shield. A last-second twist caused the sword to glance of and to the side as the chef took a powered step into his foe.

“Don’t toy with me,” growled Chris in a barely coherent voice. His eyebrows and forehead bunched up intensely as he sharply swung the falchion, hilt first, at his opponent. He could feel his anger slowly rise as he attacked. Strange, though, that he would be so perfectly aware of it. In fact, he liked it; he fed his rage as one would feed a fireplace. And like a fireplace, anger would be his slave; he would not become the slave to anger.

[Nein]

… Ironic, that it would be his lack of skill that would test his opponent’s.


Not even as a thought had his mind drew upon the irony, only as a fact; its importance was derived only through its relevance to the situation.

Coincidentally, it could be found within that very fact that he would be unlikely to connect, as his own imprudent intentions now yielded to an opposing shield. Glancing off the steel curvature at a rather uncomfortable angle, it was now his turn to come under scrutiny of the sword. Defend.


Living within the liquid momentum that dictated the rhythm of this impromptu skirmish, Drenn thrust his own shield high to glance off the oncoming hilt aimed for his more susceptible skull. As he stole a final fix of the man, he drew on the fact, the placement, the opportunity.

Drenn stepped once more to contort his stance further, before torque held his abdomen tight and he leaned into sharply into the turn. It was upon a single split second that his back remained exposed; tearing any errant strength he could from sheer momentum itself would be worth the risk.

It was upon this that he hooked his right leg around behind him in a powerful, arcing kick…


… directly towards where the brutish man’s skull would be.

[Christoph]

Just as madness can often be brilliance in disguise, as can brutishness be the curtain behind which skill hides. Only put slightly off-balance by his foe’s adept parry, Chris quickly retracted his weapon back to his torso. He was able to keep his footing, and more importantly, his wits in the face of the powerful warrior’s counter attack. Most warriors would have been caught unprepared by such a kick from a fully armed opponent. Of course, this chef, a veteran of countless barroom brawls, was not a typical combatant.

When the kick finally came, Christopher knew ~almost~ exactly what to do. He did a half-lunge forward, directly at the attacking mercenary, ducking very slightly. He put his shield in the way of the incoming kick mid-movement. The muffled thud of impact was followed immediately by a convulsing surge of pain all the way up his left arm as the forceful kick jammed every joint in the limb at a very uncomfortable angle.

The crowd cheered as foot struck wood, clearly taking glee from the grimace of pain that covered the unwilling gladiator’s face. The force of the blow had pushed his stance lower. No doubt, the spectator’s thought him to be on his last bit of strength. To them, the pirate team was about to be defeated entirely. The chef’s inner fire burned still. The spectators would have to wait a while longer.

He forced himself to ignore the numb, yet strangely and unfairly still painful, sensation in his arm for the moment; his motion wasn’t completed yet. Finding himself below his enemy’s kick, Chris pushed upward with his shield a fraction of a second following the impact. At the very same moment, he drove forward as well, his falchion quickly extending and driving at the man’s groin.

Clearly, “fighting fair” was not a behavior usually found in the taverns.

[Nein]

It was not the jaw he had struck, not the biologically flawed nerves but something softer, quite evident as his opponent’s recovery and swift counter set him off. Threatening to lose his balance on the still rocking ship, Drenn noted the quick succession in this offensive; the unpolished falchion in its heavy course, towards flesh, bone and otherwise necessary organs.


In his widened stance, perpendicular to this attacker, the young mercenary carefully forced his own blade down. Simply a reaction to protect what pride could be, a terrible screech sung loudly to proclaim his ability as the guard caught the sharpened edge of the man’s blade. In chorus, a growing roar sounded as the crowd began to direct its attention on the lasting fight of the two men – something not often seen in an end-all battle of forces.

As the damp wood claimed his footing, Drenn slipped back in unspectacular display, his focus drawn now to the unkempt hair of his attacker. It was luck that his boot caught in the planking, and without further notice he stole the advantage in position and thrust his opposing knee with piston-like force towards the unprotected jaw line of his seemingly careless opponent.

A subtle grin caught his lips…

[Christoph]

It was safe to say that Christopher’s gamble had not paid off. This was not surprising, of course. The only game more cruel than Craps was Fate. Curse Fate. Granted, his opponent’s superior strength and speed might have had something to do with it. The ramifications of this were nearly spectacular to behold. The chef could barely follow the movement of his foe’s blade as it swiftly and unexpectantly intercepted his own, meeting it with a grinding banshee’s shriek. On the bright side of the situation, this didn’t put him greatly off balance. On the side of the situation that probably rained all the time and included metaphorical crying babies, however, a knee to the face hurt.

The spectacular part of it all came as Christopher’s entire body flopped backward from the force of the blow, his feet giving out on the slick surface that they were fighting on. He landed painfully on the wet wooden deck of the boat, impacting at an awkward angle. A few curiously painful popping sounds came from his back, though it didn’t seem as though his spine were injured. A fraction of a second followed and then the real pain set in. His jaw was completely numb and his head throbbed while a great sphere of blackness pulsed in eyes, attempting to devour his consciousness.

His blade fell from his numb fingers as he remained sprawled out on the deck. A surge of fear threatened to overcome him. Perhaps his spine had been hurt more than he’d thought. The tingling of thousands of burning needles swept over his body like the rising tide. Whatever value that time had was swiftly vanishing; Chris couldn’t tell how long he’d been lying on the deck. It could have been minutes or it could have been less than a second. He had no idea. Although, the fact that a sword hadn’t pierced him yet suggested that it was closer to the latter.

It appeared that his fight, and life, was over. He could barely move, let alone muster the strength to stand up and fight again. He’s given it his best and failed; there was no shame in it. At least he wouldn’t have to fight anymore. Perhaps it was time to give up. Then, a burning fire from the depths of his soul crept into the back of his mind, telling him that it was not time to give in and surrender. He felt a second surge of life and energy flow through him and he almost felt like laughing. He’d always thought that these dramatic “second winds” and last-ditch efforts were a cart-load of cliche storybook crap. At that moment, however, he wasn’t complaining.

Chris knew that his opponent would be on his in moments. While he lacked the physical strength to pick up his sword again, he could feel his magical energy coursing through his body. It wasn’t much, but by sheer force of will he was able to harness it. Warmth spread through his body as he summoned a fist-sized ball of flame into his now swordless right hand. It was orange and swirled in his palm, traces of green and dark blue darted around within it like fish in a pond. He poured every ounce of power and vitality into it within a second, until it was twice the size of his fist. With his last ounce of pure defiance, he hurled it at his approaching adversary.

[Nein]

How strange...

Such were the sentiments of an over confident man, standing beyond an open field; a defeated opponent writhing in agony upon the ground. It was strange however, not that he was in such a position, but the position that was taken within his mind. It was one of arrogance, and of smug disdain.


... and it felt wrong.

So it was the bitter frown that showed upon his face as he turned towards his downed opposition, one that refused to show any sign of emotion; be it sympathy or cruelty. As the adrenaline that coursed through his still bulging veins began to wear thin, Drenn could feel his once pounding heart begin to slow down as the crowds began to grow impatient. It was a single word upon their minds and lips, one that began to surface amongst them in a low chant...

"Death... Death...

... Finish him!"


One particularly eager and quite blood thirsty man had stood up and shouted aloud what every other patron had desired. This fight was insofar unfinished in their minds, and as much as the young mercenary wanted it to be done, he knew that there would only be one way towards victory.

Killing never sat well with him, even in the boundaries of the Citadel...

Slowly he advanced upon the fallen man, blade ready at his side, a most sombre silence had stolen away his sly taunts and curious wit. It was also strange, then, that he should feel a sickening desire to abandon this crowd pleasing gesture.

All too late, as it seemed, where the scorching heat of unknown magics coursed towards him in a spiralling path, burning the very air it touched until the flesh of his face burned too. Indescribable pain tore through his every nerve as the blade in his hand dropped sharply, just as he did to his knees, hands desperately and still pathetically attempting to douse the intense heat that had taken him by surprise.

The mercenary would not smell the putrid burning, nor voice his agony, nor properly see his opponent again this day. Only the slightest sensation available to him...


... cool, moist, and quite forgiving.

[Christoph]

For moments Chris waited after what he’d thought to be his final act of defiance. He expected to feel the cold metallic kiss of his opponent’s blade at any second. He anticipated a sting of pain and a wave of coldness as his life force drained away. Nothing came, however; no vengeful kicks and no slashing steel.

Spending what little energy he had left in his spell had drained the chef completely. His vision had blacked out and his muscles lay as dormant as cold meat throughout his nerveless body. The strain from the battle had, finally, completely caught up with him. Yet, the sword still hadn’t come. Had he, by some incomprehensible miracle, bested his foe? He would have expected there to be a scream of pain had his fireball hit its mark. None came, however. The only sounds Chris heard were from the ferocious crowds, who had turned their fickle attentions elsewhere, and from the still-steady heartbeat of the war drums. These, however, slowly faded along with the rest of the chef’s senses.


* * * * *

Chris blinked slowly into awareness, finding himself bathed in color. The first thing that he noticed was the fact that he didn’t notice any pain. He was still physically exhausted and, as he found out upon trying to sit up, quite dizzy. The roaring crowds, ear-splitting war music, churning water, and ragged war cries were gone. He wasn’t in the arena anymore. Where was he, though?

“Be careful,” came a low voice whose tone was both caring and businesslike at once. “Your injuries have been mended, but you may feel a little disoriented for a moment or two. You were still alive, though, so you shouldn’t wind up with too much of a headache.” The chef nodded and began to piece everything together. The battle was over and he was in the room where the wounded fighters were sent for healing. He almost felt star struck.

“Thank you,” he muttered. After a few moments, his dizziness faded and he glanced around the chamber. It was everything that he had imagined it to be. It was a vast, open area with a volume that Chris couldn’t even guess at. The entire chamber was build from sparkling, polished granite and pure white marble. Massive, arched stained-glass windows dominated the wall to his left. Colorful and breathtakingly vivid depictions of mighty warriors, noble crests, and epic battles filled them. The amazing designs caught the sunlight, sending the colors dancing across the stone pillars and intricately carved statues that dotted the chamber. The spectrum of color even reached the large marble slab that he had been lying on. It was more awe-inspiring than anything he had ever seen. He was so lost in the epic splendor that surrounded him that he didn’t even notice the monk coming his way again.

“Some friends of yours arrived for you a few minutes ago,” he stated casually while walking by, reading a scroll of some kind. “They’re waiting for you outside.” His heart leapt as hope filled it. Could it be Dinea and Chiyo? He hadn’t seen them since he allowed himself to be caught so that they could escape. The thought of his friends returning to find him was the happiest notion that he’d had in days.

“Thank you!” Chris replied with significant more enthusiasm than before. He strode briskly to the door and out into the early afternoon sun. He glanced around eagerly for his friends, but didn’t see them. It was only after about thirty seconds that the chef realized that there were guards subtly encircling him. Before he could even think about making a run for it, they were surrounding him. He picked out their commander right away; it was the same pompous, blonde-haired, arrogant slug that had arrested him.

“Congratulations,” he said, his smile and jovial tone laced with obscured venom. “You’ve done as we asked, and put on quite a show if my sources are correct. You should be very proud.”

“Thank you…” replied Chris, grating his teeth and narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

“Now, all you have to do is tell us where the two girls are,” replied the officer. “We have reason to believe that they are associated with an underground treasonous organization, but we’ve yet to find them.” Good, Chris thought. “Tell us where they are and you’re free to go.” Chris’s heart finally hit the bottom, after having been falling since he saw the guards again.

“I told you,” said the chef, his anger swelling. “Those two have nothing to do with your little civil war. And I don’t know where they are.”

“Your lack of cooperation is very unfortunate,” replied the blonde guard as though he had heard nothing of what Chris had said. He put on a somber mask to cover his twisted pleasure in the boy’s situation. He turned to his subordinates. “Men, arrest him!” And there was no escaping.

[Letho]

General Notes: I find it necessary to congratulate you two. For the first time in a while, I picked up a Citadel battle and was quite surprised when I found that you haven’t set it up as the classical, overly used one-on-one in some typical setting. This made the entire battle quite enjoyable to read, because when you surprise the reader with something, it’s usually a very good thing. But anyways, onto the rubric. Christoph’s numbers are RED, Nein’s are BLUE.


CONTINUITY – 7:5

I had to give Chris an advantage here because there was some backstory to his appearance in the Citadel. The whole story about paying his debt to society was quite a good idea, though I found the conclusion somewhat illogical. If the authorities said he had a choice between prison and participating in a Citadel battle, then why when he chooses and survives the latter they arrest him again? I’m sure that there’s a reason, but I found none in the thread. Drenn’s story was a bit more classical, being there because of the money. That and the fact that the conclusion on your part missed the aftermath tipped the scales to Chris here.

SETTING – 7:6

I’ll reiterate what I said in the beginning and say that I liked what you did with the setting. You turned a battle into something more then just exchanging blows for the most part and that’s one of the examples of how originally the Citadel can be used. However, my main quarrel is that, once you two actually met on the battlefield, the setting disappeared almost completely. This is a commonality with the battle, and frankly, it’s not a big mistake. The gist of the battle should be the battle and not the flowery descriptions. But you have to give me something more then just a foot caught in a plank and the voice in the crowd. If you incorporate more random, but effective details into the battle, it would enrich the entire experience. Advantage to Chris because I felt he was a tad better when dealing with the setting in his narrative.

PACING – 8:8

Very good. Oftentimes, when I read a thread, there is a point at which I start looking just how many posts are there left and how soon it would be over because battles tend to become slugfests. Sometimes more refined, sometimes brutish, but oftentimes overly long. You eliminated this by not meeting until half the second page, and once you actually met, your battle actually felt like a true battle between two people. It was realistic, because medieval battles usually don’t take two dozen exchanged blows to come to a conclusion. All in all, good job.

DIALOGUE – 6,5:6

I find Dialogue one of the most difficult things to grade in a battle. If you have too much of it, it makes the battle look like a DragonballZ episode where they fight for two minutes and talk for twenty. And yet, if you have none of it, it makes me feel like there’s something missing. I feel that there should actually be some dialogue in a battle, a few well placed lines spoken at a right time. But this is a hard thing to balance. I gave Chris advantage here as well because of his train of thought that, though not perfect, still made him feel more like a real person and less like a one-dimensional character. Just keep in mind that thoughts, especially in a battles, are often jumbled, almost incoherent. Take a gander at Storm Veritas’s writing for an almost perfect example on how thoughts should sound like.

ACTION – 6:6

Action as in action sequences was rather good. It kept the pace going and it was easy to read through. However, there were several things that I found rather strange. Like swimming with a kite shield in one hand, falchion in the other and being fully dressed. Or Drenn’s utter ease with which he deals with NPCs. Or just confusing things like saying men screamed in pain from being pierced by broadheaded arrows at the beginning of the post, and then stating that there were no casualties from the arrow volley at the end of it. Try to reread a string or two or more posts several days after you post them. It helps eliminate these irregularities since a person thinks more clearly when only reading is on his mind.

PERSONA – 6,5:6

Two significantly different personalities here; Chris who is more aloof and absent-minded with his ironic comments and Drenn with his seriousness and complete focus on the battle. I think you both portrayed these aspects and stayed true to your characters. There’s still room for improvement, though. You need to keep in mind that a character should be looked at as if he/she was a real person, and real people have a very wide variety of emotions. So what I’m saying is that you should always try to challenge yourself to display a new side of your characters. Slight advantage to Chris because the inner thoughts made him look more real and less like a random Spartan from “300”.

MECHANICS – 7,5:7,5

I won’t waste much time and words here because I find it unnecessary in this case. You both write cleanly and any mistake I can point out is probably something that you too would caught if you reread your posts. Nein, there were two occasions in which your missed a tense, going from present to past, but it’s nothing too concerning.

TECHNIQUE - 6:5

I won’t waste much time here either. Chris, you said it yourself that this is rather old work of yours, so we both know that you can do better. There were glimpses of good technique here and there, especially in post #11, but since this was written half a year ago, you improved since then, so you probably don’t need the same old advice I would’ve given you six months ago. Nein, I find the way you format your narrative rather... confusing, dare I say, needless. Using such indentations for paragraphs would make more sense if you were changing perspective in that paragraph, so you want to single it out. However, the way it is now, you could’ve achieved the same with simply making a regular new paragraph. It might add something to the drama of your posts, but the way you write them, I often find that you’re trying to be overly dramatic. Not every paragraph has to sound profound. In fact, it’s best that they don’t, because when every other sentence has a deeper meaning, it makes the writing harder to read, especially in a battle.

CLARITY – 7:6,5

Nothing particularly concerning here, though Nein’s posts are something hard to comprehend due to the aforementioned dramatics. Remember, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

WILD CARD – 7:7

This was a good battle and an original setting made me give you both an extra point. It made the entire thing fun to read.



TOTAL SCORE – 68,5:63


Christoph is victorious!
Congratulations to you both!


SPOILS:
Christoph gets 1400 EXP, 575 GP and a nickname “Iron Jaw” for taking a knee to the jaw and still blasting a fireball to Drenn’s face.
Nein gets 375 EXP, 150 GP and a coupon for a facial in a Radasanth spa. Unfortunately, the spa isn’t run by hot chicks, but feminized men.


EXP/GP added!