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[Oli Guillory]

He wrapped the leather over his arms, the motion as familiar as it was practiced. The first time he had tried to wear the odd looking, metal studded straps, the man he had bought it from had given him a hearty chuckle before equipping the weapon as it was intended. Ever since the clinking of mizas had signaled he was the new owner of the cestus, Oli had practiced no only how to fight with them, but how to arm himself in as efficient a manner as possible. It wasn't as if he needed to; whether slow or fast, if the cestus wasn't worn before a fight, there wasn't a man or woman alive fast enough to get the things one before it would be over with them defeated - or at the very least any man or woman who would need to use the weapon if they were fast enough. Fastening the final strap into place, Oli stared down at his arms and hands, flexing his fingers and twisting his wrists to make sure everything would hold tight.

Letting his knees bend, he crouched into a ready position, striking the air out in front of him a few times, air hissing from between his teeth as he tightened his body with each punch. He felt the slight breeze of his fists pushing past the invisible essence of the sky, his muscles relaxing and contracting as he pulled his arm back towards his body only to send the other out in rapid succession. The leathers remained in place, snug against his bare skin, the slight scraping of fabric sounding with each movement as his sleeves shifted up and down his arm, catching on the studs every now and then. Taking both hands and striking his knuckles together, Oli nodded in satisfaction. He was ready to fight.

"Y'ready, Princess?" The words were spoken by a man about Oli's own height. His features were far more grizzled, arms large and strong, fully capable of the strenuous and arduous daily work the mines required of him. He eyed Oli with a mix of contempt and interest, his own weapon tapping against his leg, the sword dull but still steel. "Y'sure y'wanna do this?" A dark brow raised, his forehead crinkling as the mop of ruddy-brown hair shifted in what was, essentially, the man's best expression of pre-murderous mercy. "I thought y'wanted to fight with a sword. Or a mace. Or..." He shrugged, Oli's apparent lack of appreciation for his display of grace pulling the tone from his voice and letting the gruff, gravely bass roll back into it. "Alright then."

Though he raised a brow at the man's suggestion he may wish to find another opponent, when the affirmative was given, he flexed his fingers twice before balling them up into a fist, the leather pressed against his palm, as he took up a defensive position with arms raised to guard his face and knees bent in anticipation of either advance or retreat. "When you're ready."

The man laughed, shoulders rolling as he found his own fighting stance, sword raised so that the curve of the blade was situated just a few inches from the man's guarding hand. With little more than a quick bob, the man lunged forward, the sword swinging in a vertical arc with a speed Oli hadn't quite expected from the way the man was built. Sidestepping the attack, he wasn't nearly fast enough to avoid the swing entirely. Instead, he pulled his arms back towards him, taking the hit from the sword at an angle so that it struck the studded leader of his cestus, slamming against his arm with more than enough force to bruise the skin, but the trajectory of the attack had had its power focused in the downward slash, letting Oli hop back, shaking his arm out with a grin as the man's eyes widened with an appreciatory chuckle of his own. "I see."

[Oli Guillory]

The cestus was a close range weapon where the sword was most effective at a more middling range; of course, the difficulty of the situation he was in was the entire point of his excursion out to the fighting pits. The men and women were far less prone towards getting upset with him when he hit with all he had, and he had wanted to focus on his skill and tactics with his nearly unarmed fighting style completely rather than to attempt restraint to keep himself in the good graces of his peers. It wasn't as if Oli wanted to want to harm them, but whenever there was a speck of blood or a quince of pain, it was as if a spark landed on a barren tinder in his chest. While it wasn't impossible to control himself, it require effort that was better spent keeping himself toe to toe with his opponent. In a true fight, a real fight, it was a useful urge, a bloodthirst that was simple to sate, especially when his quarry was deserving of death. Of course, when it was a friendly match or a subjugation, things were a bit more difficult for him.

With the grinning man before him, however, there was little for Oli to worry about aside from the slow, anticipatory circles they drew upon the ground beneath them. There were others within the pit, their own cries and clashes of metal a suitable backdrop to the current, relevant skirmish, and while there was a part of Oli's mind that was aware of the other fine denizens of the stalwart city who had come to better themselves upon the tried and tested grounds set aside by Anthonius, his eyes were fixated on the dull glint of the blade and the tensing and relaxing rippling of the man's muscles as he shifted his weight. He mirrored his opponent, each of them testing the placid waters between them, feigning left or right to try to catch the other unaware or to find where their attentions lagged. In the end, however, it was Oli to moved first. The distance was too great, and while it was detrimental to both of them, it was far more a hindrance to his own limited reach than the extended capabilities of the sword.

His feet hit the ground with a burst of speed, legs rising and falling in quick succession as the muscles beneath the linen strained to propel him in a straight line towards the other man as quickly as was possible. He felt a slight tug at his stomach but pushed past it. The fatigue would come whether he circled the other man for bells on end or dashed in like a madman - it was better to use his energy while he still had it. His advance was not unexpected, but his reckless abandon of defense in exchange for the limit of his speed proved a surprising enough tactic that the man took a step back to prepare a counter strike rather than to get out of the way entirely. With a sharp shout, Oli extended his fist out in a linear jab, the leather creaking beneath his grip, while his eyes darted between the target of the man's jaw and the sword clenched tightly in his opponent's hand.

The strike missed, instead grazing the man's shoulder as he twisted out of the way, the speed of the dash more than he had calculated for and forcing him to retreat to protect his face without attempting a recoil of blade or fist. Oli stumbled out of the dash, keeping his knees bent and using the point of impact that his fist had made to help slow him and, with an arcing roundhouse, help guide him back into a position that had far less footage between them. Man rolled his shoulder, grimacing from the pain but eyes glimmering with the telltale excitement of one who had far to much pent up and a place to finally release the strain and grind of his grueling work. "Y're quick, boy!" The sword swung in a menacing threat, forcing Oli to take a few steps back. His shoulder rose and fell, the exertion of his lunge sending his heartbeat into a pace better fitting a fight.

Again, his fingers flexed, eyes focused and steady, their dark tones flitting over the man's posture as he gauged where next he should strike and from where the next swing might come from. "I try."

[Oli Guillory]

At the half-tick between when his last word was spoken and next drew breath, the man attacked, a grinning roar flying from his lungs and his sword moved in a horizontal slash before him, his legs shuffling with a speed that Oli expected but covering a distance he did not. A fully connected strike from a sword was something his cestus couldn't block; the weapon was designed to deflect - it was a poor replacement for a shield. The metal studded, leather strips that were tightly wrapped about his arms were, however, very light, and he threw himself out of the way, buckling his legs and crumbling into a roll, sinking straight down then towards where the swing had origionated. The ground hit his shoulder with a firm reminder that it was far sturdier than he, but as he rounding his jutting edges and pushed himself back to his feet, he used to few ticks it took for the other man to reorient himself to launch his riposte.

Two steps took him within striking distance, with a third to throw his full weight into the punch. The man struck out with the pommel of his sword, the hard metal slamming against Oli's chest in the same tick his studded fist found a place that was a near reflection of the other. Both let out sharp, pained gasps, but Oli had closed the distance and wasn't ready to lose his advantage quite yet. With his free hand, he swept it across his chest, smashing his knuckles into the fingers that clenched the sword's pommel and drawing fourth a pained yelp from man they belonged to and Oli turned his body into the punch, knocking loose the grip before reversing the twist of his torso to strike back at the man, this time aiming for the man's stomach as his arms were in the way of his face.

The hit connected, and the man let out a groan. The sword clattered to the ground as he wrapped his arms around his stomach, and Oli moved to strike again, pulling back his fist to throw another. Before he could, however, the man pulled a dagger and lunged for him, the blade a surprise and therefore something he didn't have time to think about. It bit into his side, the dull edge still enough to draw blood from the sheer force and proximity of the swipe. Wincing with a mix of pain and excitement, Oli hopped back, his breath coming in heavy draws as he felt his muscles tingling with the strain of his previous punches. The sting from where the dagger had scraped out a line of his pale skin to reveal a reddened strip that just barely threatened to bleed was invigorating, and his grin finally hit his eyes, the dark caramel rings lighting with a new flame as the other man gripped his dagger tightly, eyes sharp and grin far less amicable than before.

"Y'hit hard for a little fella." He rolled his shoulders, grimacing as he straightened himself up, muscles tensed and body at the ready should he need it.

"And you soft for a big one." They exchanged grins, the man spitting onto the ground at his feet, eyes flicking to the discarded sword as the dark green lights swam with the potentialities that might arise should he try to retrieve it. Much better matched to a dagger, that was not the point of the fight, nor was Oli content to let it change towards such. Taking another couple steps back, he raised his hands, a sign that he was to take no aggressive action. "You dropped something."

[Oli Guillory]

"Aye, that would be m'dignity." He let out a gruff chuckle as he hurried over to the sword, kneeling down to fetch the weapon from where it had fallen, popping back to his feet and at the ready as Oli resumed his own stance. "Honor?" He dipped the edge of the sword towards Oli, the metal glinting a dull sheen in the light. "Or not enough of a challenge without it?" His voice wasn't particularly offended. If anything, there was a lilt of curiosity as he began to circle Oli once more, eyes flicking between the other man's feet, knees, and face: the three most telling places from what he had gathered.

"Would you believe me if I said both?" Oli's smile was more so in the words he spoke than his features, which had settled into a focused glare, brows knit and eyes scanning for familiar tells. He had been taken unawares by the man's dagger, and though it had been replaced back into the man's boot, Oli wanted to be as sure as he could that there were no more surprises to be had. In a true fight, the mistake could have easily cost him his life.

"Nope." The reply was short and gruff - a intake of breath to propel him forward. Oli braced himself, holding his ground as the man advanced, his sword coming down in a slanted slash moving from the lower right to the upper left. Pulling both arms toward him, Oli moved with the sword, the blade striking his forearms initially but catching at the metal of the cestus' wrap, stalling as the object of its focus moved along with it rather than to aid its cut through resistance. The force of the blow knocked him back a half step, but he used the momentum of the deflection to turn into a roundhouse with his left, the metal of his cestus' studs glancing off of the man's chin as he stumbled backward with a frantic shuffle, the recklessness of his swing immediately realize as Oli's knuckles took with them a small patch of skin.

No retort was made. Instead, the man charged again, though this time he used the blade as a lunging extension of his reach. While the curved blade was hardly well-suited towards such a jab-like strike, it was also far too dangerous a blow for Oli to deflect, as the actual point of impact was small and focused. Instead, he hopped out of the way, tripping over his own feet into a frantic stumble, pushing off of the ground as he bobbed off balance to keep himself from completely falling. The sword struck again, twice more, and Oli twisted and turned, doing what he could to avoid the dull blade. It finally connected, the cool metal finding the already sensitive scrape the dagger had left, and Oli let out a sharp shout of pain, punching instinctively at the blade. There was the muffled clank where his knuckles connected, and the sword was knocked away, pulled back by his grinning opponent.

Sweat dotted both of their faces. The hole in Oli's shirt was slightly torn open more so from the last strike, and while the blade had not pushed too far past his skin, warm blood trickled down his side, cooling in the winter air and reminding Oli that he still had a long way to go until he would be able to call himself anything but a common squire. He flexed his fingers, re-gripping the leather that pressed against his palm, before he darted forward. He could feel his breath moving through his lungs in a more strained capacity, the slight burn of exertion slowing his motions by a tick as he closed the distance between them. As he moved, he waited for the sword to extend itself in the telltale jab, the man's confident grin quickly faded as Oli shifted both weight and trajectory, pulling the arm closest to the sword up and back towards his chest to protect from any attempt at a frantic strike.

[Oli Guillory]

The anticipated strike from the man's sword never came. Instead, his fist finally found its target, and while the man moved with the punch, the hit was more than enough for him stagger back in a daze, eyes unfocused and blade raised in the wrong direction. Before Oli could take advantage of the situation, the man gave a gruff shout, his words muffled by his increasingly aching jaw. "Enough!"

Though Oli's rapidly beating heart and pumping blood insisted they continue, he fell back upon his strained breath and focused on the tickle of sweat that ran down the nape of his neck. He slammed his knuckles together as he took a few steps back, holding his breath to help calm his more aggressive proclivities. Biting down on his lip, Oli pressed his fingers into his wound on his side, the pain sharp and heady, drawing away his desire to bash the other man's head in to a more inward experience of the acute sting that his bleeding side offered him. With his focus more in control, Oli shook his head, wiping the blood from his side onto his trousers as the other man gave him a pained frown. "That's enough for me then."

Oli offered the man a fist, to which the blade tapped against his knuckles in a curt parting, before the man turned to gather his things, still nursing his jaw and muttering something under his breath. Watching the man leave, Oli tapped against his side absentmindedly, the sticky blood already beginning to clot. When he had first started out learning how to wield his weapon of choice, he had rarely walked away able to stand on his own. Now, he was skilled enough to truly fight and win - though, as he glanced down at the red stain on his fingertips, he supposed that "win" was relative. The scrape wasn't terribly deep, and he enjoyed the way it burned when he moved or twisted, so he shifted back and fourth as he slowly removed the leather straps from his hands and arms. There was plenty more he had to do, and as a squire, the majority of his time wasn't his own to spend, but the early mornings allowed him some leeway to visit the pits as he had in the past.

Stuffing the cestus back into his pack, Oli shouldered the bag and headed out of the grounds, turning down an ally and picking up speed. As he bumped and pushed his way past the slowly growing rise of sleepy looking faces, Oli did his best to hurry back to the dormitories. It was always a rough day when he wasn't able to get himself at least partially cleaned up before he stuffed himself into his armor for his training and whatever other duties his patron had planned for him, but as luck would have it, by the time he made it back, it was already three chimes past when he was supposed to be ready. Tossing the pack to the side, he quickly undressed and redressed, darting out the door without so much as a second glance back and pile of dirty, bloodied clothes. It was going to be a long day.

[Konrad Venger]

Hey, Oli! Once you get back and deduct your Winter Seasonal Expenses, I'll grade this up, no problem. PM me when you get back!