Completed [The Anthonius Fighters Pits] To Another's Detriment

[Razkar]

20th Day of Summer
10th Bell

He was stronger, he was faster and he had been wielding his blades for twice the amount of time that Razkar had been alive. There was no better instructor for his own.

And none more painful, either.

The Myrian lunged to Eranis' right, aiming a punch with the lakan clutched in his hand. The curved blade was held in a reverse, "stabbing" grip and wouldn't hit the Akalak, but the hand guard augmented his fist and he knew it would hurt. The lakan in his left he had tucked closer to his chest, guarding against any other strike-

-but the Akalak slid away, face as set and focused as his unblinking purple eyes. Razkar's fist hit nothing and he jerked it back, sliding in the opposite direction, knowing the Akalak would strike back-

-right arm punching for his chest, Razkar's left jerking upwards to block it, blades clanging against each other-

-until the Akalak's muscles rippled in his arm and parried it outwards, away-

-left straight slamming into Razkar's stomach, along with the hand guard of his own lakan, knocking the Myrian back...

Razkar backpedaled across the sand and stamped his foot back, turning side-face to his opponent. He felt the warmth ooze down his abdominal muscles, and knew the punch had drawn blood, hand guard of the lakan dulled but still a thin edge of metal, so...

"Your abilities to wield both blades at once are improving." Eranis said in that smooth, erudite tone that hinted at no injury or exhaustion. There wasn't even a bead of sweat on his forehead, whilst Razkar was lathered in it. "But I can see you have let your training with the lakan to slide."

Razkar just scowled and nodded. It was correct, after all. His skill with the gladius and hand ax was superlative, even if he did say so himself, but they were only two of the six weapons he habitually carried. Meaning that if they were taken from him, which could happen in the fury and confusion of battle, he would need to fall back on dagger, kukri and lakan.

Of which he still knew next to nothing. Hence that morning. Hence his pain.

"Something I will... make good."

Eranis' lips quivered for just a moment, the closest he'd gotten to a smile in half a bell, since they'd stepped down into the pit. He nodded and assumed his stance, both hands up like a boxer, each hand gripping a lakan.

"We'll see. Again."

[Razkar]

Razkar's skin was bruised and bleeding in enough places that he wasn't rushing to combat this time, but in a pit only fifteen feet wide, eventually it would find you.

Eranis came in again, punching out at him and forcing him to sidestep away, but the Myrian could tell he was going at half-speed, and that galled the living petch out of him.

Because he wants to teach you something, not pound you into the sand within the next few minutes.

He aimed a punch at his chest, a straight right, but glanced at away at the last minute to the reversed blade would slash against Eranis' chest-

-but the Akalak swayed away, right arm jerking towards his arm in an uppercut-

-Razkar threw up his right out the way, crossing his left lakan to slash at the uppercut, aiming for the Akalak's forearm-

-only for his left to come in low, at his stomach-

-and his twisted his body away, bringing up his knee at the same time, hammering into the purple wrist, slashing back down at it to disarm the weakened hand with a follow up slash-

Move after move, attack and counter, one growing into another, prompting another, birthing it, like act and reaction.

-but Eranis pulled back his arm, avoiding the slash, giving Razkar one of his own at Razkar's right shoulder and the Myrian growled and grunted as a red line was cut into his skin-

-forehead jutting forwards to slam into the Akalak's nose.

The bigger Eranis staggered away, pain distorting his features but no surprise, no shock. He'd been hammered like that before, courtesy of the Myrian, and despite the blood dripping down his nose, he shook his head once, twice-

-and his arms came back up. No tremble in his arms, no more pain on his bloody face...

Well. That was worth yet another cut on my arm.

"Your first blood." Eranis said with something approaching pride. "Good."

Razkar grunted, as if he had yet to be convinced, feeling his right arm already tingling from the blood loss, and flipped the lakan in that hand over to it was held properly, blade forwards.

"Could be better."

"It always could, my friend. That is why we're here."

[Isolde Seibold]

The Nuit didn't know what she was doing here. She shouldn't be here. There were probably people here that might want to hurt her, and others that might know what she was, and still others that might combine those two "mights" in a way that she found entirely unfavorable.

So what was she doing here? Did she think she would really accomplish anything, coming back to the Anthonius Fighter's Pit? What was she planning-- to find an opponent to take it easy on her? Another teacher--? Very unlikely. Or perhaps she just thought, just maybe, that the Myrian would be here. Yeah, right. And what? He would be waiting with bated breath to give her another lesson--? Psh. He probably regretted the last one he'd given. Besides. Her teacher wouldn't even be here, she didn't know what she expected of him. That he spent all his time fighting the day away? She was being an idiot, and if she thought anybody else might help her she was going to be seriously disappointed--

And then she looked down in the Pit, the layout of the entire place naturally drawing her eyes to the spectacle happening below, and her jaw nearly dropped.
Petching speak of the devil.

The Nuit peered more closely, squinting... and was that her chin scraping the wooden floor of the stands?
Because it certainly appeared that the devil was being beaten and bloodied.
What the--

Razkar of the Shorn Skulls. Her first thought was, Does he live here or something? No, that was ridiculous. But perhaps this was where he'd set up shop. Perhaps he really was waiting for people to meet him here, students seeking the knowledge of stabbing and slicing and everything else he had to offer-- which seemed to be quite a lot, and all of it having to do with bloodshed.

And then she thought, Holy gods, who the petch is that other man? The Nuit's dull blue gaze focused intently on the strange man with the purple skin...

Wait a minute. Purple skin?
No. That couldn't be--
But there it was. Her eyes weren't playing tricks on her.
What was he? A-- what were they called? She couldn't remember for the life of her. She supposed it didn't really matter.

Both men were bleeding, obviously in the middle of something, and so the Nuit told herself that she would just bide her time, and really she didn't want to interrupt them anyways. So she settled into the stands and went through the process of trying to make herself invisible to prying eyes, or at least unmemorable and uninteresting. Ducking down a bit, tugging her hood forward, making certain the dagger was lashed properly to her belt and wouldn't, by some miracle, fly down to interrupt the Myrian's spar like it had before. There. Nice and discreet. Nobody would notice her now. She would wait here, would quietly observe the two men's spar, and if it looked like the warrior of the Shorn Skulls was going to have a bit of free time she would get her Mizas ready and hope that he hadn't changed his mind about letting her keep her head.

As for the purple man--
Well, it was better to hope he never noticed her. Perhaps he would be as... civilized to the Nuit as the Myrian had been. But if not... well, Isolde didn't want to take her chances.

So now all she had to do was wait, and-- and watch. And try not to be too disturbed by the blood running from her teacher's arm and his many bruises. Or by the blood pouring from the other man's face, desperately wanting to remind her of a few different, unpleasant experiences. But no. Not today. Now wasn't the time. Now was the time to wait.

OOCSorry for not doing anything particularly interesting, but it would be SO VERY RUDE to interrupt again, so the stands it is.

[Razkar]

It sounded like words. There was a hubub in the Myrian's ear as he got back to his feet, coming from the Akalak's direction. He shook his head, fighting off the cloying, insistent fug of exhaustion... and saw Eranis looking up.

"I said, 'Friend of yours?'"

Razkar followed the tall male's gaze until they were looking at the same spectator, who seemed to shrink a little more into her hood under their stare. But Razkar immediately recognized those pale limbs, the eyes sunken deep into their sockets, the bright, alert if slightly-fearful expression in her eyes.

It was how he knew it was a she, for one thing.

"Student," Razkar said, having to use the wall to steady himself that time as he got back to his feet. He'd got cocky again and Eranis rewarded him with a spinning kick to the ribs. "I train with dagger."

Eranis cocked a satirical eyebrow. "You being so qualified and all, hmm?"

"Ah, petch off, I need the money like anyone else."

Eranis just chuckled in that odd, bird-like manner of his, high and dainty, almost, studying Isolde. Purple eyes narrowed and seemed to gain power because of it, fierce and curious intellect burning through them.

"Pale skin... shadows under the eyes... vague... smell of putrefaction..." He frowned slightly, now genuinely surprised, something Razkar did not often see. The Myrian was still stretching out his pain, ribs on his left side groaning in protest. Yes, definitely enough for today's session. "She's a Nuit, you know?"

Razkar had never heard the term "Nuit" before, but given the tone and expression, he knew it was the same as what his people called Isolde's race. Or species? Disease? He didn't even know anymore. He looked up, lakan in either hand... and sheathed them.

"Yes. I know."

"Strange that you would agree to train her, then. I know your people have... stringent rules, regarding her kind."

"In jungle." Razkar said, and Goddess, didn't that just sound like an excuse as much as a reason. "We are not in jungle." He jutted his chin in her direction, half-smile on his face like a challenge. "Come back for second lesson? Bring flour this time, too?"

[Isolde Seibold]

The figure, who had indeed hunkered even further down in response to the purple man's stare, gave the slightest wave of a hand when Razkar finally brought his gaze up to her, studying the Myrian's face quite intensely, going around the piercings and tattoos to concentrate solely on his expression. The recognition was clear on his face, and she was glad for it... almost as glad as when she noticed that little half-smile. Smiling was good, no? The Nuit stood, leaving her knapsack at her seat, still searching his face for any indication of latent hostility... but it looked like everything was alright, so far. Especially when he called up to her.

"Come back for second lesson? Bring flour this time, too?"

Isolde took the words as an invitation, quickly scrambling over the railing and down into the Pit, making it obvious that she still refused to jump. Once her booted feet hit the dirt she stayed carefully where she was, eyeing the towering, purple man without ever seeming to actually meet his gaze... and then gave a hesitant, distracted quirk of the lips over towards Razkar, shifting her gaze to him for a moment or two, before refocusing on the other who may or may not wish to stomp her into the ground. No smile from him, so far... though she had the suspicion from the look he was giving that he knew what she was, and she didn't like that one bit. People knowing always made her nervous. "I a-always liked g-getting kicked in the st-stomach, th-thought I might come back for another go," she mumbled out to the Myrian's inquiry, and oh, wait, she was supposed to seem strong here, around him. The Nuit made the effort to work the stammer from her words as she patted her pocket lightly in response to his second question, "A-And of course I have the
flour-- though I wasn't planning to use it on you." Blue eyes still focused warily on the other man, and her words might have seemed like some sort of peculiar threat towards the purple-skinned giant, had they been coming from someone else. As she was, she just sounded merely cautious, as if she thought that at some point she might be forced to defend herself against someone who would really want to hurt her. Not that she hadn't ruled Razkar out of that particular category. He was just too dangerous to put her at complete ease.

Dangerous, yes... but injured at the moment, too, or tired, or something. With a bit of a strain, the Nuit dragged her eyes from her teacher's... friend, to look at the man himself. She took a step forward towards him, and the concern sat easily on her face as if she was used to exercising it, eyes flitting over his body, brows furrowed, "Is this a-- a good time? You're alright, aren't you?" That cut on his arm looked pretty nasty, there were a couple other slices she could see, and he was painted liberally with bruises of different sizes and colors. Isolde had been watching when he had had to use the wall to get back up to his feet-- she didn't want to impose upon him when he should be getting rest or tending to his wounds. "I could come back another time--" Eyes darting back to the purple man, and she certainly was the watchful one today, not able to decide who she should be focusing on most.

[Razkar]

"A-And of course I have the
flour-- though I wasn't planning to use it on you."

When she'd finished speak Razkar gave her a small nod of his head, complete with a smile and a raised eyebrow. Eranis frowned, wondering what it meant, though it looked like some... compliment? A sign of improvement. The Myrian certainly looked satisfied... was it because she stopped stammering.

"Talk is better." He said bluntly, and his composed compliment would have worked better had he not been a sweaty, near-naked mass of muscle that was weeping blood. "I say last time, it is very good to speak with no stammer. Make people think you are strong inside. Child and coward stammer, or fool. You are not those things."

Goddess, how strange it was, talking so lightly with a Demon. That was what Razkar as always raised to think these creatures were, anyway: monsters, abominations, affronts to Myri and nature itself that stole bodies and ate souls. But he felt no miasma of evil emanating from this one, merely a... fear. And Razkar would be willing to guess he knew way.

Because her whole life, she's met people like you.

"Is this a-- a good time? You're alright, aren't you? I could come back another time--"

It was only with her words that Razkar actually looked down to see what kind of a mess he resembled. Blood seeped from both his arms and some cuts on his stomach; nothing serious, but still annoying and stinging in the humid air. Bruises made his bones creak and ache under his marred flesh... but then he stretched his arms wide, and turned to the Akalak, bringing his lakan together.

"My thanks for the lesson, Eranis, but I have student."

The Akalak's eyes shot upwards in surprise, but he managed to crack a wry smile, more akin to his cousin's than Razkar would expect. He sheathed the razor-sharp blades he held and put his fists together, bowing shortly... but not taking his eyes from his enemy.

Smart male.

"Thank you for the exercise. It was... educational, as always."

Razkar smirked softly at the backhanded compliment, there, but let it go. It was worth it, learning more of the formidable Akalak's skills, and part of him knew it would be better to have Eranis teach this lesson. But...

Business is business. Besides, he learns as much from me about how Myrians fight.

Once the Akalak had climbed out of the ring, Razkar let out a deep breath and rolled his neck on his shoulders... then his shoulders, wincing at the pain in the cuts there... then his torso on his hips, side to side...

"Well," he said finally, biting back the pain and focusing on the lithe girl in front of him. She watched as a familiar kukri was unsheathed, tossed from right to left to right again, then flipped around to it was in the reverse hold. "No time like present. Let me see how you remember to hold..."

[Isolde Seibold]

Child and coward and fool, Isolde thought, watching the Myrian dismiss 'Eranis', watching the man until he had climbed fully into the stands, away from the ring, away from her. Well, her teacher had one thing right; she was certainly not a child. But a coward and fool-- she was fool enough for setting foot in this place once more. Against her own better judgment. And it was a simple fact of life that she was a coward. Perhaps the Myrian might think she was no coward, but she knew her motives much better than he, and she knew how it was the fear that drove her to do what she did, and how scared she was at this very moment. If it wasn't for that early morning meditation, she wouldn't even be here. If that was not cowardice, she didn't know what was.

But at least she knew his lessons worked. She got rid of the stammer, and somehow that made him think she was stronger than she really was. There was a grim sort of smile on her face at that.

Her concern she tried to keep at bay. He was bleeding, yes, and that bothered the Nuit greatly... but, from the looks of things, it didn't bother him near as much. So she'd try to keep that particular weakness from her eyes, lest he notice it and rebuke her.

"Let me see how you remember to hold..." And then he flipped his kukri into some strange position, and she wondered if he intended to spar like that... well, it would be good for stabbing, the full strength of his arm behind each forward blow... and from the look of things, he could sweep his arm sideways with the blade sticking out, and if he managed to drag it across her midsection it would make for a perfect evisceration. That thought made her shift on her toes uncomfortably, the fingers of her free left hand wanting to squirm. She clenched them into a tight fist instead, untying the dagger from her belt with her right. The Nuit drew in a deep, steadying breath, holding it for a moment, and then moved her fingers into the old grip as he instructed, holding her hand up so that he could see.

There was a brief pause as Isolde considered something, looking uncertain. And then she shifted her first finger forward a bit further along the handle, as Fallon had shown her. "Which makes a stronger grip, this--" She showed him Fallon's grip, then brought her finger back into its original position, "Or yours? And--" Well, she hoped she wouldn't be angering him by questioning his style, but... she wanted to know. So she slid into the stance he had shown her, left foot forward, left hand extended, dagger by her side, right foot back. "And which stance is... is surer, this
one--" She switched positions, drawing her right foot forward, now, left leg and hand back, turning sideways towards him, dagger pointing straight at his chest. "Or this side stance?"

OOCTut tut, Razkar, starting a lesson without getting paid first. Make certain Raz asks for Mizas at some point in time... because Isolde's too worried about other things to remind him. C:<

[Razkar]

The Myrian cocked his head to one side like a curious canine as she asked her questions and adjusted her stance and grip. A slight frown marred his brow. She had been talking to others, it appeared, and learned more about the weapon she gripped in her hand.

He made a thoughtful little sound, walking in a slow circle around her with his kukri up, grip reversed and blade held almost parallel with his lower arm, the cutting, curved edge of the blade facing outward.

"It depends on the fight." He said simply, and as honestly as his limited experience with daggers, lakan and their like would allow. "That grip you have?" He nodded to her sideways stance, dagger held a little more... delicately, straight towards him. "Is more like... dueling. Like how would hold sword. Made for grace. For move and parry."

He adjusted his grip with a flick of his wrist and tried to mirror her, finger extending up the length of its hilt. "See? More like... thrust, like... ah... sword that is rap... rapier? Yes..."

With another flick he'd reversed his grip and his comfort with it was noticeable... but there was something a little off about it.

"Kukri is made for slash, for hack." He tapped the inward curve of the strange dagger/machete. "See was this bend? Much better for hack. Put more power in hit. So, not best weapon to use in train, but... I need train, too."

Razkar winked, and Isolde blinked back her surprise, but retained her composure. The Myrian smiled back at her a second time, nodding and slightly impressed yet again. She may have thought it was a fallacy, sounding and looking more confident that one was, but what she had yet to realize was that her front was what the world saw; what it judged her on, before she even acted.

"And way I hold now?" He tapped his kukri, held reverse now under his arm. "Not so easy to grab kukri or wrist if someone try. Way you hold now? If miss, could grab wrist, hold you out."

The Myrian lunged forward without preamble, slashing sideways at her with his kukri. She reacted well, despite the fear flaring in her eyes, her dagger slashing upward to meet his blade in a sparking clang-

-as his hand jerked up at the same time, straight up, fromt underneath-

-hard, dark finger snapping around that thin, icy, icy wrist holding the dagger...

She's a demon. She is corruption and death and decay wrapped in a corpse. She could rip out yours and wear your flesh like a cloak and yet you train her?!

Hundreds of years, dozens of generations howled from Razkar's blood and demanded death on the creature he was staring at right now. So frail, so fragile... so young. But how old was she really? Fifty years? Five hundred? A thousand? She could be older than Myri, for all he knew...

And yet... and yet...

"See?" He said eventually, gripping a little tighter just to press his point home. "Could pull dagger away, expose you chest and you throat. Could keep pulling you forward, put you on you arse. Or you-"

She foot swung out with something between a squeal and a grunt, but Razkar was already twisting away, spinning to her right, kick aimed at his crotch hitting nothing but air-

-and Razkar stopped turned a few feet from her, kukri held in reverse, arm up and cocked, other hand half-closed into a fist. He circled her slowly... eyes never leaving her...

"Good! Very good. Grip may work for you. Only one way to know, and that is to try. And for stance... for me? Make small target. Less for enemy to hit. So, side way, yes?"

Razkar smiled thinly, eyes gleaming just a little in genuine amusement, but it was buried, vetted and suppressed by the cold, serious drive to educate his student. His legs flexed when he stopped moving.

"Time to learn."

Razkar lunged forwards, slashing low at her stomach from her left to her right.

[Isolde Seibold]

Perhaps the Nuit didn't have the best reflexes, but she did have eyes. So when the Myrian stopped, only for the muscles in his calves to flex suddenly in preparation... Well, the Nuit was already moving by the time he lunged.

It was the little things her teacher did that so unsettled Isolde, causing her nerves to clang, keeping her on high alert. There had been a minute, significant pause after he had grabbed her wrist that had made her wonder what he was thinking about. There was the unreadable expression in his black eyes, and the way that he seemed to shift very easily from amused and facetious to almost scholarly and serious.

And of course there was the fact that he now went for her stomach, after she had just been thinking how simple that grip on the kukri would make an evisceration--

But she really needed to be paying attention to the here and now before he accidentally --or purposefully-- ended up cutting her.

His blade came slashing towards her stomach and she was in the side-stance still, so that made dodging back out of range perfection, her feet dancing as she got out of the way--

And then, just to complete the dodge, she slid automatically to the left, anticipating some sort of swing or blow to come in from his left side and correcting for it--

Leaving her in position to attack.

She didn't want to allow herself to get too close. The Nuit didn't want to give him the opportunity to grab her again. So, contradictorily, what she did was tempt him to do just that, darting forward in a long lunge towards his stomach, hand extended, thinking he would bring an arm down towards hers to block or catch her wrist. At the last moment she quirked her blade up, directly towards where his arm would be swinging in to meet hers--

He was a much better fighter and far more experienced... she could count on him to evade that attack. So, while she was in close enough and he was distracted, she twisted her body suddenly, stepping easily forward with her left foot to alter her stance, switching to the one that Razkar himself had taught--

And with her foot came the left hand in a hard fist, clubbing down at the line of vibrant blood on his right shoulder, a target painted red--

Then she was immediately switching back into the side-stance, which was better made for quick and graceful dodging, skipping away to out-distance his next swing.

It seemed her plan of attack, for now at least, would be to dodge in and out, trying to anticipate his moves --which was paramount for someone like her, with her atrocious reflexes-- and only going on the offense when she could afford it, dancing around him all the while. Hopefully that would make it so he couldn't grab her... and it would let her practice both stances by switching between them constantly, something she had realized with a spark of inspiration. Maybe he had wanted her to fight fully in side-style... but, well, she wasn't the best at that particular stance yet, and with him she didn't want to take any chances. Someday she would try that with someone a little more benign. This plan, which would constantly keep her moving around him, might not have worked for someone with limited endurance. But she was a Nuit, and one of the few luxuries that came with the title was that she rarely, if ever, felt her muscles get tired. Boundless stamina, a perk of not being alive.

[Razkar]

There was not challenge, no honor and little room for improvement in fighting an inferior opponent. From the time he could hold a weapon, Razkar was encouraged to find his equals, his superiors in combat. How else could one improve? He didn't expect the lithe, fragile girl opposite him to provide that challenge, and unlike the fables, he knew she was unlikely to blossom into some warrior-maiden in one sparring session.

But she could surprise him, and that was enough.

She opened him up beautifully, he had to admit. Drew his blade with her extended arm and exposed his wounded shoulder, sliding away to his side, arm flashing out-

-slamming her small but hard fist into his wound-

-and making that simple blow ten times more effective

The Myrian grunted sharply in pain and felt a tremble of unease seize and twist his arm, grip on his kukri tightening. Fresh blood oozed out the damaged limb, her knuckles spattered with drops of it... and yet when they were back to circling, Razkar was smiling.

"Ah! You learn other lesson without teach!" He said around his feral grin, impressed with his student. "If enemy has weakness, has injury, take advantage. Hit where he is weak; keep hitting so saps strength, takes his will to fight."

The rolled his shoulder so she could see the crimson dripping slowly from the gash she'd made all the more ugly and violent.

"Bleed him out, if you must..."

Isolde seemed to be taking it to heart, he realized, staying at a distance from him, circling, breathing steady and slow and her posture careful. She was intending for a long game, and given whom she was fighting, it was the wise course of action.

"Not all duel end in quick stab and thrust, like in story. Sometimes, takes longer-"

Razkar darted to her right, kukri cocked back to his side to deliver a low backhanded swipe horizontally to her legs, forcing her back-

-but sliding forward at the same time, this time slashing upward and to her right, forcing her to sway away-

-using the momentum to lash out with his right foot and slam his toe under her left kneecap. She staggered back with a squeal but kept her blade up, her guard steady, pacing to walk off her injury.

The Myrian smiled... and tossed his kukri to the other hand, holding it as it was meant to be: in a chopping grip. It weaved and danced in front of her slowly, bobbing and swaying from side to side, up and down.

"Remember. Always keep eye on enemy blade. But in fight, you not fight blade; you fight man. So that is where you strike-"

Feet sliding across the sand and ancient stone, Razkar came on again, slashing diagonally up and down twice, a quick flurry of blows that kept her guessing, her arm almost flailing to keep pace, to parry, to match his blade-

Learn the lesson.

-as his right hand snapped out to aim a jab at her stomach.