[Alvadas Event] Team Shale V. Team Ulric (Match 1)

[Fallacy]

Fall 30th, 511 AV Today was an exciting day. Today was the day. Today was the first day of the Tournament that has had Alvadas all riled up about. If there was something Shale was good at it was making a buzz go around. His clever scheme for advertising “The Tournament of Titans” and promising the best fights Alvadas has seen yet there was a lot of pressure for the fighters, the participants of the tournament, to fight to their very best while still not killing each other. The rules have been outlined before the tournament, and they were expected to be followed. ”Ladies and gentlemen of Alvadas” Shale walked out of the gates revealing himself to the crowd, ”Today is an important day.” he said walking deeper into red sands, ”Today is the day you all have been waiting for!” he yelled getting a good response from the crowd, ”Today folks is a once in a lifetime chance to see the greatest of Alvadas fight against each other.” the crowd roared again. Shale smiled, ”Today Alvadas you will see a clash of two groups of titans, please welcome Team Shale.” he pointed to one end of the Colosseum, black gates rose and the three walked into the sands getting a warm welcome from the crowd. ”And Im proud to introduce to you for the first time, Team Ulric!” he pointed to the other end of the colosseum. He waited for the three to walk out, and they were greeted by the crowd just as warmly as the other team. Now that the six of them were assembled Shale walked to the edge of the Colosseum and climbed into the stands taking a seat made just for him. Once he was situated he smiled and clapped his hands, ”Let the fight begin!” OOC: Ok, now I said the six of you walked out but only two of you, one from each team, are going to post here. The two posting here will fight. In your first post please don’t make any actions against your opponent. They will be considered an introduction post. Keep posting order, and please have fun

[Laute]

Laute hissed slightly as he walked into the bright sun. Its rays shone hotly down on him, one of the last days of summer before the winter chill came. The sun was annoyingly bright. He would have preferred if it were the late evening, the edges of darkness filtering into the clear sky.

Then again, he would have had the advantage then and what sport would that be?

It was still early, though, and the red sands he threaded through had yet to become burning hot at the touch. Barefoot and with only his small bone knife, he looked less prepared than his teammates and opponents, with their shields and weapons. However, his claws and fangs were just as sharp as their blades, as his opponent would soon find out.

He heard the man speak, the crowd cheer, but paid it no attention. There would be time for that later, when his match was over. Heading onward, into the center of the ring, he stretched his wings before the battle began. Shaking them, they spread easily behind him, a towering shadow of fur and muscle.

Glancing across the ring at his opponent, he felt a thrill of bloodlust run through him. He might not have much experience facing human weapons, but he couldn't resist the urge to fight either.

[Victor Lark]

Victor stepped to his spot without glancing at the opponent ahead of him. He would not yet award them a look at his eyes, which were occupied with his nails in a hasty attempt at seeming nonplussed. It took him longer than it should have to remember that the fingers which he so meticulously inspected were, in fact, wrapped in gloves.

How embarrassing.

Suddenly the human dropped his hand and looked up at the man before him. He raised an eyebrow. What he saw there was an animal. Though it was not one he had seen before, it seemed perfectly menacing and not very intelligent. It was taller than he, with claws that were probably stronger than his, and it seemed to have functioning wings. If Victor was intimidated, he did not show it. His only thought was of a slightly different vein.

That couldn’t be fair.

There he stood, on the other side of the arena, a small, slight man donned in the sort of expensive armor only a tourist or an aristocrat would have chosen. His body was all shadows: many pieces of hard-and-soft night leather swimming together in inky blackness from his toes to his fingertips to the height of his neck. Only the shard of a soft face offered any contrast, hidden from above by a mop of overgrown hair. A keener eye might have also noticed the ridiculous leather scabbard that hung black around his waist, holding a black-pommeled dagger made of warm iron.

A broad smile broke over his lips and the fool faced the crowd, raising his arms high at them. He thought he heard them grow louder, but there was no real way of knowing. His hands only dropped to his sides when his eyes fell on the beast again, to whom he gave a smaller grin and a sideward nod. Inexplicably, he winked.

[Laute]

Facing his opponent, he took in the slight man's appearance. Covered in darkness, he would have fared better in the night as well. The only protective covering Laute could sense was leather.

Not metal, at least. He could do something with this--a harder form of skin, but skin nonetheless. His eyebrows quirked as he watched the man greet the crowd, obviously enjoying the attention. A moment later and he was greeted with a grin and a wink.

Nonplussed--humans were odd creatures--he gave a faint nod in return. To have entered a contest like this, he obviously had some sort of skill. Perhaps not in strength--his body looked too lean for that--but certainly in something. Coming with only leather and a small dagger of some sorts, it would not do to underestimate him.

He waited until the introductions were over and the non-combatants left the arena. Then, without another thought, he slipped into his hunting mindset.

A little insulting to an opponent, but it was easier to think of him as prey. The arena held nothing in terms of cover and the shifting sands were harder to grip. As expected from this city, not even the ground could be trusted. If he were to fly, there would be an advantage there, provided the man didn't have anything to throw.

With practiced ease, he slowly circled the man, careful to keep a set distance between them. The sands slowly grew warm beneath his feet, and without warning he dashed forward. Quickly, he threw a tight fist at his opponent's torso, attempting to knock over the man. His left arm jabbed from below, angled up so as to impact both the stomach and the chest. As his first arm returned to his body, his other hand swiftly attempted to claw at his head, the largest vulnerable section of flesh he could find. A little bloody, perhaps, but as long as he didn't seriously maim or kill the man, it should be fine.Vary of any motions his opponent may do, his wings were spread downwards, ready to flap up if needed to relative safety.

[Victor Lark]

Victor’s body turned with Laute as he circled him. His shoulders were forward in defense, but otherwise he did not seem inclined to attack first. He wanted to see what his opponent would do, learn about his choices, and he was content to be hurt as he was educated. The smile did not drop as he said facetiously, “Like what you see?”

But then he was suddenly upon him. Only half-trained reflexes saved the human from the rush of fur and claws and wings that filled his vision and rendered it useless. Ultimately, his eyes closed against the spray of sand in the monster’s wake. He had seen a fist, at least; the promise of airless lungs and an aching diaphragm was left ungranted as he bent blindly out of its path. His spine arched sideward and he lost his footing. Unfortunately, he did not fall in time to escape the claws that assaulted the only unarmored piece of him. They grazed his scalp and left him dizzy with pain, tossing red dimples onto the orange sand.

Down to business. He could respect that.

His fall turned into a hasty roll as he met the ground, soundless against the soft sand. He opened his eyes. Remaining beneath his opponent for another instant, he groped around for a piece of the blue blur above him. If his fingers found something to hold, they would use all of his fresh strength to pull Laute down with him; whether or not they did, he was quick to hop to his feet and shuffle quickly away from those claws.

That was the extent of his attack, so to speak. He knew that his opponent was too strong and too sharp to try and face him directly, not yet. After all, Victor had more than a dagger for a weapon. “What large wings you have, blue man!” He said, hands at the ready, kicking up sand as he moved backwards from the creature in an arc. The peculiar look of the man unnerved the Ravokian in him, but he could not let himself be anything but curious, with the win on the line. “Tell me where you got them. I’ve always envied a good pair of wings, though I can’t say I’ve ever seen them featherless.”

A hand went up to feel the sharp throbbing on the back of his head, and came back wet and sticky. He cringed before looked back at Laute, legs ever moving, dancing, avoiding. “I might like to see you fly!”

[Ulric]

Ulric groaned. Here he sat, about to risk his neck for a purse of gold, and he had to have this jape of a man on his side. “Don’t just stand there,” he snarled, frowning as the dandy lowered his stick-like arms, no doubt to admire the figure he cut in his foppish armor. “Take that dagger and ram it up his petching arse!” This shouldn’t even have been a competitive fight. Growling, he spat a gobbet of phlegm over the lip of the stands, then glared at the gaunt, winged monster, brow furrowed as he watched sharp claws swipe at the dandy. If not for the fop’s reflexes, the fight might’ve been over right then. “Go on, you shyke! Break his wings! Flay the skin from his puny cock!”

[Laute]

The sudden drop surprised him, the blind attack following it not so much. Expecting it didn't change much, whether or not those small fingers clenched at his fur, digging into his flesh, he was still unbalanced by the end of it. The sand didn't make it easier, shifting as he tried to get a firm foothold. Stumbling and sliding back a little, he managed to regain his stance.

Defensively crouched, he watched curiously as the man created small clouds of sand as he moved. Should he answer the question? This was a hunt. Words didn't need to be exchanged when a life hung on the balance.

Oh, but this wasn't a match to the death, Laute recalled. A death would be frowned on. As the man moved around--and Laute felt a small satisfaction at watching the agility of the man. He was right about his skills.

Curtly, he gave the only reply needed, "The same place you got your legs."

His opponent would be on the defensive now. No matter, Laute was better at close-range attacks than anything else and he'd have to attack anyways.

This time, he didn't circle. It was a trick that wouldn't work twice in a row. Eyes watching his movements so that the moment something came out, he would be ready to dodge, he charged toward his opponent once more. He ducked low, legs out to kick the man off balance and onto the dusty ground. His hands sank into the sand, not as ideal as the firm ground for this type of movement. Still, he adjusted for it, his legs out in a sweeping arc before he jumped back to his feet.

Should the man have dodged, he'd follow it up with another attempt at punching his torso, his hands clenched as he tried to make the most impact in the softer stomach.

If the man fell, hitting the sand with a dull thud, he'd attempt to pin him down, sitting on his chest as his hands pinned the enemy's wrists to the soil.

[Victor Lark]

His eyes rolled from his opponent to his teammate, smile unfaltering. He pointed patiently at Ulric and his frustration, then kissed his hand and threw his flippant affection at the rankled fisherman.

But Victor was not enough of a fool to disregard an attacker for long. He turned back to watch the creature advance from afar, legs never ceasing beneath him. A wide, arbitrary curve followed him where he carved it in the sand, stepping quickly backwards to keep his pace even as the space was closed between them.

Instead of preparing a preemptive attack, Victor used the time he bought to fill it with words. He laughed. “I got my legs from my mother!” Glancing scrutiny over the chiropteran body, he added, “You don’t look like you have one of those—”

But the tail end of the final word was cut short as he was forced to react, leaping into the air and diving forward at the ground. His head curled beneath his body, which crumpled into another rolling break fall and left his rival’s arcing foot unheeded. He thought the dodge was clever, but he misjudged the depth and grip of the sand; he reeled forward but could not recover enough momentum to stand before Laute was upon him again. A grunt of surprise escaped his candid throat and he rocked backwards, flinging his knees upward in preparation for a backwards tumble. “Not so fast!” he cried as he pushed speed and strength and adrenaline through his feet in a deft kick towards the beast’s wide chest.

He tossed his legs over his shoulders and quickly scrambled to his feet. Again he fled backwards, keen to avoid those claws’ retaliation. “I’ll let you be on top,” he taunted, “but I insist that we wait until afterwards.”

His forgotten smile returned as he produced his dagger from where it waited at his side. He held it out at Laute like a promise, but ultimately resumed the coward’s strategy, hunching his shoulders in defense. Sweat had finally broken on his brow, but it was quickly cooled by the breezes of his movement. His swift-moving feet left the rest of his body still, his energy conserved.

[Laute]

A grunt escaped his lips at the solid hit to his chest. The kick winded him, his breath knocked out, and it gave those few precious seconds it took the man to escape. For a moment, his chest burned and he was more surprised than hurt by the retaliation. By the time he regained his breath and pounced, his claws sank into the loose earth instead of solid flesh. Hitting the ground, he sprawled there for a second before rising into a crouch.

Clearly, he had underestimated the acrobatic skills of his prey. It was not a mistake he would make twice.

His taunts were slowly getting to Laute. The infamous mood swings of his race was something hard to control and no matter how long he lived with humans, no matter how much practice he had cooling his temper, it was not something he had perfected yet.

Uncontrollably, he could feel his control slipping, the embers of anger stirring at the words. If this fight was prolonged, he would snap.

The dagger, oddly enough, had the opposite effect of its user's intention. It amused him. In particular, the slight hunch, the single, gleaming claw, the nervous scent that lingered in the air. It was more comical than threatening.

The man was probably capable of using that dagger, but there was no confidence in his actions. Instead, it seemed like Laute had cornered his prey and it was making a last attempt at escape. The desperation calmed the fury that the man's taunt's created.

Standing now, he straightened his back, shaking the sand out of his fur as he did so. It clung to him, hiding in the crevices that lay between the folds of his skin and fur. It would be a nuisance until he bathed.

Warily, he eyed the man, still moving, still crouched. A dagger was dangerous, in both the hands of the experienced and the novice. The expert can deftly wound Laute. The in-experienced can inadvertently injure himself or accidentally actually hit his target.

A single dagger was dangerous. But Laute had five in his hand and his fangs to contend with. Holding back, he watched the man as he moved. A crouched body was harder to hit, unless Laute aimed for his back or legs once more.

Circling his prey once more, he waited for an opening to come. Concentrating, he ignored the jeers and yells of the crowd, focusing only on his prey's movements. His body remained loose, knees bent, ready for that sudden sprint that was required.

And as he moved, eyes fixed on his foe's body, he made the circles ever so smaller and smaller. Faster and faster. Careful to stay far enough that the man would have to reach to stab him, he gave a feral smile, all teeth and menace.

With that, he pounced once more.

He might have a small repertoire of tricks, particularly in an environment like this, but they were ones he could do well. While trying to avoid his opponents blade, he clenched his fist, his right arm posed as it had been before when he punched his opponent's stomach.

A feint, hopefully one his prey would fall for.

Hopefully one he could accomplish. His attempt: a swerve around his foe, the sand spraying wildly around their feet as he turned. One leg stretched, calves burning as he arched his body around. His right arm remained tucked to his side, his left twisting with him and trying to ram into the open back.

[Seven Xu]

Seven was suspended on the very edge of a wooden bench, pale fingers gripping his knees as he stared wide-eyed at the spectacle. Having arrived before the bulk of the mass, the halfblood was not wanting for a decent view and a comfortable seat, but it felt as if he’d swallowed a mug of flies and they were buzzing in his stomach; every time Victor dodged the onslaught of the furred and winged creature he felt as if he could retch. The man who shouted expletives at the Ravokian in the ring was decidedly Ulric, a brusque man that had been introduced as one of Victor’s teammates by the voice that shouted over the din of a growing crowd. For a time, Seven had remained silent, only prickling when the crowd burst into cheers of mirth and excitement at the fight between Human and exotic Zith. Ulric’s chastisement of his own teammate and Seven’s dearest friend forced him to find and sharpen his tongue.

“Don’t call him shyke,” tongue clicked and fangs jagged a line between gritted teeth, “you ought to be in there fighting that thing!” Victor’s facetious response to Ulric the Oaf curled Seven’s pale lips, and he even laughed a nervous laugh.

A moment passed. “He needs something longer,” Seven mumbled beneath the hum of the crowd, but loud enough for the Oaf to hear had he wished to listen. “A spear or something; his arms aren’t long enough to outreach the Zith and he isn’t wearing enough armor.” Flies buzzed and hammered the pit of his stomach as he watched Victor hunch his shoulders, dagger outstretched. Seven forced himself to pry his crimson leer from the fight long enough to search the benches and sea of faces for any sign of a long-ranged weapon: a pole, a spear. The halfblood knew little of fighting, aside from basic techniques a Syliran squire had taught him, but he had a good deal of logic between his ears; common sense could be as dangerous as a blade. It was a shame he could not toss his friend a handful of that, instead.