Rain.
The water pelted against his head, hair soggy and drooping cascading over his eyes. His lips pursing from frustration, as he blew upwards. A wet clump hardly rose before smacking him back in the face. Soon he gave in his left hand ran through his hair, to slick it his face. The pitter-patter of droplets on his armor chimed out in their own song, as a wall of water seemed to be the separating structure between the combatants and their audience. It didn’t make this squire much difference, nor did it seem to call away from anyone else in the ring. Mud flecked onto his skin from the impact of the sonic burst against the ground, which shuddered from the force.
With his right hand he re-gripped his weapon, holding the blade backwards to run it parallel to his elbow. His stance deepened, weight centering to keep his balance, knees bending for support, arms held slightly outward grunt. The rain obstructed his view, but not to the point where he couldn’t make out his opponent. But his confidence swelled he actually was holding his own, but while relish in his own accomplishment he thought about the woman he had attempted to save moments earlier, as did Molotov.
“So… ponce, you really think that bird’s gonna love you after what you did for her? She won’t, she’s in the Cell to advance, not to play some sodding dating game…” the mutant chimed. “And she’s probably going to bloody die now anyways… care to save her?”
Arsenic cringed, but he knew from the lackluster sonic attack that, or at least he hoped that she was ok. It wasn’t his concern now, not while Molotov stood not even 10 feet away from him. To expose his back would not be the better of two strategies, besides that there was nothing else to decide on. His idea was to throw his opponent off balance but the wall was to far to jack knife, and the arena was covered in mud. The gritty grimy substance that was a result of to much water mixed with dirt. Any amount of water as a matter of fact. His lips curled as he had a moment of enlightenment.
Self safety? Or anothers?
Shifting his weight forward, he clambered forwards across the mud-covered grounds; viciously Arsenic twisted himself from right to left. His right foot dragging flat against the slick surface, sending a small wave of mud to act as his own wall which would be aimed at his opponents eyes but it would fall short, and drop headed for Molotov waist. As the wave raised so did Arsenic’s sword, from the way he held the weapon it looked as if he were sending a haymaker to Molotov’s face, at the last minute flicking the blade around to the side of the mutants face.
A simple attack, if connected would deliver that fatal blow, if his opponent moved back he would just thrust the blade towards Molotov’s chest. Even still the weapon moved with unmatched grace, and the grip tightened on the hilt as it drew nearer to Molotov.