Closed [ The Fighters Pits] The Secret To Nothing (Rhov)

[Holland Rolandus]

33rd spring 515 av

The day was young, but it was incredibly active and filled with vibrant warmth which was widespread about the pits for today. The fighters’ pit was a strange place, but it was a location Holland still had yet to become familiar with. Holland didn’t particularly like being surrounded by people even if they were simply doing a bit of practice. Holland looked about and realized that he had forgotten something. Holland forgot to take down his tent before he left the camp-site he typically resided in. The bronze woods were the place he’d called home for quite some time. Holland observed watched and assessed the multiple people around him for now. Holland wanted to figure out why people fought without a care in the world. Why did people tend to be un-disciplined when they battled as if it were a game? Holland hated dishonor, and believed firmly in death-before-dishonor. Today truly wasn’t a day for hypocrisy and Holland didn’t like this place in the least bit.

Holland scoffed as he thought about the fact that Claudia wondered why he didn’t particularly enjoy the presence of other people. Simply because he knew that she would never come to understand why he felt that way. Yet, he also thought about the fact that she was much more of a social-butterfly then he was. Holland wore his typical and yet not so casual-attire. Royal blue and silver-clad in his thin shirt which was long-sleeved and hugged at the wrists, and layered above the shirt was his fathers’ old back-and-breast armor. Holland always thought about protection before he would so much as attempt to pick up a weapon. A good defense was always better then a strong offense and Holland learned that the hard way as a child. Complementary to the back-and-breast armor Holland had a weapon strapped to his hip. He carried a rapier which was simplistic and yet incredibly beautiful in his opinion. The steel shone and glimmered as he walked about with the steel imprisoned by its scabbard. The black-sleek scabbard too was odd and had an “off” appearance.

Holland didn’t too much care about the appearance of his hair, and he hadn’t cut it in quite some time. His hair became more and more elongated as the days passed, and he hadn’t combed it in quite some time either. Hollands hair stopped directly above his eye-lids, and it was more dark then onyx in coloration. Yet, his brown eyes were quite the stunningly interesting feature about him. Some might call his eyes captivating, but Holland never thought of himself as remarkable. Holland typically hated the people who thought highly of themselves. People who held “higher rank” and possessed the curse of having a sense of entitlement were fools. Holland hated them all, majority of men women and children alike. Not only because of the lack of discipline they had, but because of the fact that they were nothing but foolish sheep amidst a pack of wolves. Holland simply stood and enjoyed the breeze as the dim-gale caused his clothing and hair to flutter violently. Holland watched as several of the people within the vicinity flung daggers about, and swung weapons improperly. Holland was no expert himself but by now he was sufficient enough to say he knew when a weapon was properly being wielded. He simply waited for someone to catch his eye as the moments fleeted.

[Rhov]

Steel sang the violent song of battle as strength matched strength in the Fighting Pits. Rhov found himself locked in combat with a fellow knife wielder; a rare occurrence among the swath of warriors who would play at being knights with their long swords and heavy shields. The stereotypical Syliran fighting style entailed hitting one's opponent a hard as possible, trading blows until one either died or yielded. A knife fight, however, was an entirely different sort of animal.

An orchestral eruption of blades swarmed the two combatants as they weaved their weapons against each other in a symphony of slashes. Every cut met a parry, and every parry implored a counter. Fighting with knives wasn't about strength or the quality of one's equipment, it was about the speed of one's body and mind. There was never a respite from the downpour of edged steel, for to delay even a moment begged injury upon one's person. Every second counted, and the fight became more about testing each other's speed than actual victory.

It was this type of combat that Rhov reveled in. Fast-paced, almost feral in design, and decidedly exhilarating. Matching strength against strength was fine for some fighters, but Rhov required something with a bit more savagery. Sword fighting was a noble sport. Granted a deadly one, but still an art which who's mastery was mostly reserved for those in the upper echelons of society. Knife-fighting, however, was the commoner's combat. It proved easy to learn, accessible to all, and able to be adapted to many styles.

For instance, Rhov's opponent fought with much more reservation than he did. Unless pressed into close-combat, his enemy preferred to keep their distance from the wicked curve of Rhov's blade. On the other hand, Rhov fought without reservation and without restraint. He committed wholly to every strike; allowing him to off-balance those who expected some sort of counter-measure. He didn't fight stupidly mind you, just with feral intent. Rhov would use every aspect of combat to his advantage, should it have presented itself. There were no boundaries for him in bloody battle, no lines of honor he would not be willing to cross. To him, fighting was just as much about survival as it was about victory. Rhov was many things, but paramount among them, he was a survivor.

Dark cunning swirled deep within onyx eyes as Rhov's opponent over extended a piercing strike. Rhov clamped down on the knife with a gauntleted hand, the edged steel caught against the odd protrusions of his metal-wrapped hand. With his free arm, the young bounty hunter landed a curved elbow strike square against his enemy's jaw. His appendage stung as bone crashed against bone, but the stunning strike was more than worth the pain it wrought. His opponent now off-balance, Rhov rushed forward with disabling kick to his combatant's nethers. His enemy crumpled to the ground, reeling from the admittedly underhanded strike.

"D-dishonorable blow," the now curled form of his enemy growled through gritted teeth.

"No such thing. Do you yield?" Rhov replied with an almost route tone. The Chaktawe thought that these Sylirans place far too much importance on 'honorable' combat than actual victory.

"Yes," his opponent sputtered out before attempting to rise. Rhov offered a hand to assist, but the man either did not notice or chose to ignore it. Sighing with quiet displeasure, Rhov stretched as the slightly uncomfortable feeling of sweat clinging to hard leather began to envelope him. The fight was good for a warm up, but Rhov needed something with a bit more challenge before he retired for the day.

[Holland Rolandus]

From afar, Holland observed the short-lived duel between the two men. Although it was rather short-lived and incredibly one sided the battle was interesting. Holland scoffed due to the fact that the obviously more skilled fighter won. Yet, in most cases skill didn’t matter too much in comparison to tactical prowess. Holland thought to himself about the fact that skill shouldn’t be gauged by the ability to swing a weapon, but by the ability to out smart and out maneuver an opponent. Holland recalled multiple battles he’d been in and won by being more observant and tactile. The man, the one who won the battle interested him. Not only because of his odd hair length, but his skin-tone and the way he stood made Holland curious. Holland typically wasn’t one to pick fights with strangers, but in this case temptation ruled the day.

Holland made his way over to the boy immediately, and proposed a challenge. Typically Holland wouldn’t bother being outspoken like this, and he surely wasn’t the social-type. He often times struggled to keep a decent pace in any and all conversations he’d ever gotten into. Holland hated arrogance, and he damn sure hated one-sided battles. Holland was a firm believer in equal-opportunity. In his mind Holland saw nothing equally matched about that battle. The entirety of the battle consisted of dishonorable blows, and considerably boringly lackluster attacks. Holland wished to beat and batter the boy senseless and would do so without hesitation. Yet, the moment Holland thought about the fact that he’d only ever seen the boy battle once he procrastinated. He took a moment to think about the fact that the boy might’ve held back his ability in that particular situation. Restraint and chastity were two very common practices of combat, but did the boy make use of them?

Perhaps he did hold back the true strength of his attacks, but if he did then why were they all so ungraceful? Holland eventually swam about in a vast ocean filled with nothing but overlapping thoughts. A few ticks later, Holland moved in and called the boy out to fight against him. Justice, honor, glory, and goals were the only thing Holland ever focused on. Holland stood firmly by what it is he believed in, and despite the fact that he often thought of his actions as being justified he was wrong. In several situations Holland managed to get himself into he was called “Evil”. Yet, Holland thought for a moment “What truly defines evil? What is evil, and why do people even believe that it exists? Am I evil? Am I what they call twisted, and corrupted?” Holland knew that he couldn’t possibly be evil if that even existed. Yet, he came to another conclusion in his mind his thoughts continued to hammer away at his conscious. “Evil isn’t a thing that exists, there is no evil in this world. Evil is only defined by doing what other people think is wrong by their own moral standards, but what if the “evil” that you are doing is going to benefit others in the future? “Holland came to the conclusion that there was no good, no evil, but simply series of moral standards that people followed. If a person hadn’t been justified by society, and society disagreed with his actions then they demonized that person. Holland parted his lips to speak as he approached the boy in the odd clothing.

“You, I want you to battle me. I saw that little one sided fight of yours, and I wasn’t pleased in the least bit with it at all. You think that you are strong boy? Do you think that you are mighty? I shall wash away your pride, and drown it beneath the waters of ten-thousand Tides!” Holland exclaimed in a rather harrowing tone.

[Rhov]

The slightest of spring breezes whispered against Rhov's skin with cool grace. While pleasant in its approach, the breeze did little to chill the blood which boiled underneath his bronzed skin. His last fight had barely whetted his appetite for battle, and Rhov found himself starved for combatants. After his last display of ruthless assault, many fighters declined combat on sheer principle. Who where they to dirty their blades with the blood of an honorless fighter? They didn't even deem him worthy of being put down. No, it proves better to let a mongrel starve than put effort in culling it from the field, the Chaktawe thought, venom poisoning his thoughts as yet another 'paragon of justice' shot him a dirty look.

Surprise shook him from his internal musings as a sharply dressed young man announced his presence before him. He stood taller than Rhov, and seemed to carry the muscle which came from constant combat. His hair hung at shoulder-length, curling naturally at the edges. Blue eyes clashed against solid black as the man stood inches from Rhov's face, peering down at the foreigner with the utmost contempt. It seemed the way Rhov did battle displeased him. That fighting an unequal battle amidst strangers was somehow a character fault and not a result of random chance. Regardless of his reasons, the newcomer held the challenge tauntingly before Rhov, his last insult echoing dully throughout the din of the fighting pits.

"How can someone say so much and so little? You Sylirans confuse me," Rhov replied with easy confidence, brushing off his opponent's hollow threats with casual indifference. The bounty hunter had been threatened by much worse in his line of work. Criminals and murders, men like Gene Duval, they knew the essence of fear. They knew how to probe and prod ones anger, how to sneak under someone's skin and tear them apart with threats. Whomever this man was, he sorely lacked the cruelty to make Rhov believe his words.

Rhov circled his challenger with predatory appraisal, his hunter's focus ironclad in it's intent. Onyx eyes picked out what little they could from his opponent; the length of his sword, his use of a heavier armor type, and so on. He probably uses the sword to keep his distance, and relies on his armor to take the hits he can't. Not quick enough, or just too lazy? Might not be comfortable with my type of close combat then. He doesn't seem to have the stomach for dirty fighting, which puts me at an advantage. Might need it too.

Bare feet against the loose dust which clung to the ground, Rhov shifted his weight in his toes in preparation for the oncoming fight. He dropped into a fighter's crouch, keeping low to the ground and prepared to launch himself forward at the first opportunity. A smirk formed on the sun-scorched skin of the desert dweller, a plan taking firm shape in his mind. "By the way, I don't fight to please people. I fight to win. You might consider doing the same."

With a swift kick, Rhov sent dust scattering through the air, hopefully obscuring his enemy's vision from his next move. Rhov rushed forward with furious abandon, his anger sharpening his movements and focusing his mind. He found solace in the simplicity that combat wrought. The world was clear when Rhov was fighting. There was nothing but the battlefield; no outside distractions to muddle his mind or dissuade his body. No confusion, no fear; nothing but he and an enemy. Blood and sweat culminating in a deadly dance of steel. This, this is what Rhov lived. Why he hunted, and why he fought. For these few, fleeting moments of clarity he received in the midst of chaotic upheaval.

Utilizing deception as his ally, Rhov attempted to surprise his foe by not directly attacking him, but instead disabling his ability to fight. With a grunt, the Chaktawe shot his steel-clad hand forward to restrict his opponent's sword-arm. The attack proved to be all force and no finesse, Rhov relying on surprise to shove the arm away from his more vital organs. Seeing an opportunity to further his assault, Rhov followed through with jab to his enemy's nose. Rhov's assault was focused completely on aggression after his initial bit of deception. Should his attacks land, he would find himself sitting pretty with plenty of openings to combo into. However, as was typical of the brash youth, he was unprepared to deal with the harsh reality of a counter-attack; believing fully that feral aggression combined with savage cunning would be enough to see him through his trials this day.

Eywaat help him if it wasn't.

[Holland Rolandus]

Holland observed actively as the boy attempted to use the art of trickery against him. Dishonorable tactics, often result in defeat by more dishonorable means. In battle Holland believed that mobility, and proper defenses prevented poor performance. This boy, this man whom he battled against lacked defense. Firstly the boy didn’t look prepared to battle in the least bit, and as he circled Holland, Holland stood still. A breeze, a warm one graced Holland’s locks, and caused them to flutter about violently. Holland knew that in mere ticks an attack would come, but the question was when? Holland anticipated, and although he was slightly-off with his prediction the boy charged. Tactile and yet swift in his movements Holland stepped forth as the boy raised his leg. The warmth of dust painted his visage for a mere moment. His optics closed momentarily as he witnessed the sheer speed and lack-luster attack thrown by the boy. A combination of movements might’ve been important, but Holland thought about something.

Combination attacks are only useful when executed and timed upon a vulnerable opponent. Holland knew precisely what the boy would do, and if his assumption proved to be true then the opponent surely threw a second strike. Although Holland wasn’t adept with battle while blind; he moved forth. The boy off-balanced himself with his own strike, and although it was aggressive Holland countered it. Holland threw upward his right forearm and shot it forth. He attempted to use the boys own foolish force against him, and “cut” the kick at the boys shin. If indeed the counter-attack did land then surely pain would strike swiftly. Whilst he counter-struck the opponent with his right arm he made use of his left arm as well. Holland’s eyes snapped open swiftly and he realized that the boy lashed out a weapon immediately. “How boring” Holland thought to himself as he struggled to follow-through with a motion to grasp the boys wrist. The bare-digits of his left hand coiled about the flesh of the boys own. Holland charged forth and pulled backward using his left hand and he yanked the boys left hand toward the outside of Holland’s rib-cage. Holland twisted and used the torque of his hips although he did so un-intentionally and improperly to thwart the boys motions. Holland followed-up the motion and outstretched his left leg. Holland tactically placed an attack in a sweeping motion, and aimed to slam his heel into that of the opponents’ ankle.

Holland struggled to thwart the boys attempt to restrain his sword arm. With the grapple surely his opponents’ aforementioned jab would be redirected. Holland twisted away at the boys’ wrist-despite the fact that he wore armored gloves. In order to stop himself from being injured from battling against a boy like this one. Holland hadn’t ever encountered someone who attacked as foolishly as this man did.

Holland didn’t generally like to battle without the ability to use his Rapier. Yet, Holland constantly reminded himself of the importance of remaining calm during battle. A savage with a blade is just that, an idiot with the ability to swing a weapon. Therefore Holland chose not to be savage, but rather to be civil. Philosophical in his thoughts; Holland began to ponder. “Why is this boy so confident, when he fights like a rabid dog? Confident men fall during battle, and crushing them, defeating them and throwing away the very hopes, dreams and virtues was the only way to break them. To make them question themselves is my goal.” Holland concluded his thought. Holland wanted so badly to break the boys balance, but Holland needed to make time. Therefore if given the chance and his combination-counter strike worked. Holland would draw his Rapier upon the first opportunity he was given. Opportunism was another important virtue during battle, and Holland has never hesitated to take advantage of an opponent when given an advantage.

A smile that could rattle the nerves of a stalwart combatant remained upon his visage as he attacked. Holland spoke simultaneously whilst he moved in on the boy.

"Like a raging-whirlpool shall my courage and anger tear you asunder!"

[Rhov]

Gobsmacked. Astounded. Infuriated. All such words described Rhov as he was easily, almost embarrassingly rebuked by this unknown aggressor. His ankle shrieked with pain where his opponent had managed to sweep kick it, and the of his whole body shook with surprise as he tumbled backwards from the sudden counter. Rhov chastised himself for willingly opening himself to such an easy attack. He barely knew what his opponent was capable of. Hai, he didn't even know his name. It was foolish for him to assume that a blind charge would work on an unknown entity, and Rhov would not make the mistake of underestimating him again.

Springing back onto his toes, Rhov altered his stance accordingly. He shifted his weight back and forth between his legs, almost bouncing on his toes. With the speed this enemy reacted to his assault, in a breast-plate mind you, Rhov would have to be able to adjust and adapt quickly; something his previous stance did not allow. His steel-clad hand stood defensively at the side of his face, ready to intercept and redirect blows. The wicked curve of his Angle-Knife poked out from the edge of his hand, secured in a hammer-grip via its finger ring. With a cleansing breath, Rhov prepared himself for the next bout of combat that awaited him.

Then, he almost choked laughing when his opponent attempted to intimidate him again. Sure, the smile was creepy enough, set him on edge almost. But the words, dear Eywaat, the words. What was meant to inspire fear left only laughter in its wake. "That's cute," Rhov chuckled darkly. " No, really. Consider me thoroughly afraid of your 'raging-whirlpool'."

Shaking the remnants of laughter from his system, Rhov's focus turned cunning and cruel. He still had the advantage of surprise, despite all appearances. This man was trained to fight in hand to hand and against warriors more akin to his mindset. Rhov, however, wielded no weapon of ordinary description. He knew that not many fighters had experience against the keen curves and subtle deception of his weapon, and he very much doubted that his opponent had encountered its ilk in his experience. It proved a small boon, but a boon none the less.

Rhov waited until this unknown enemy stood within striking range, and then, with muscles coiled with violent intent, the Chaktawean warrior lashed his knife hand forward with a downward strike aimed for the gap in between the breastplate and his shoulder. The blow wouldn't be lethal, just painful. As pissed as he was, Rhov would not kill a man without due purpose.

The strike was easily blockable, but that was the intent. To those unused to fighting against the Angle-Knife, it seemed a desperate attempt to land a dangerous blow. But to those few with enough experience to understand the workings of the foreign weapon, they would know as Rhov does that the downward slash was simply the set up. Once the blow was blocked, Rhov spun the knife forward on finger-ring inlaid on the handle, effectively doubling the reach of the weapon. The talon like blade spun outward, digging deep into the soft curve of his cheek. The strike drew blood, but it was superficial at best. Rhov hoped it petching stung.

After the attack, Rhov took no chances in letting himself once again be so thoroughly trounced by his enemy, disengaging from the encounter as deftly as he could. To him, it seemed the best strategy was to strike hard and fast, then retreat before a counter could be achieved.

"Come on chopre he randi," Rhov swore at the man in his native tongue, the words sifting over his tongue like a gale over a desert dune. "Where is your courage now?"

[Holland Rolandus]

As the boy tumbled backward Holland took the short amount of time to free the Rapier at his hip from its imprisonment. The scabbard clattered about upon his hip as the blade was drawn and held in his right hand. The pappen-heimer guard shone luminously as the sun blessed it with light which reflected off into the nearby atmosphere. Simplistic, and yet an incredibly beautiful work of art the sword could be called. The weapon was rather unremarkable in regards to appearance, but it surely wasn’t to be underestimated. Despite the length of this Rapier it wasn’t made in the “Traditional” fashion. The rapier was far thicker, and included a cutting edge made for slash-attacks then the traditional rapier.

The foolish boy lashed out again, and attacked recklessly. How many times would he undergo trial-and-error before he figured out that any attack could be countered? Holland scoffed at the boys idiotic and yet head-strong dedicated attack. He observed it as the strike came forth into his range. The obscure and incredibly grotesque-guard of his weapon included several steel protrusions which projected themselves about the outside of a circular-disc like structure above the wielders hand. Ample hand protection was provided by such a Rapier, and obviously Holland planned to use that to his advantage.

Holland allowed himself to be stricken the first time, but however when the weapon struck his neck it stung. Holland’s eyes widened for a moment as he felt aqua-de-vitae escape his flesh. Hollands’ instincts roared for the death of this man, and Holland was tempted to use Reimancy right this moment. Holland wouldn’t allow this petching fool to escape so easily. The moment the boy removed the blade from his neck Holland outstretched his left hand and grasped hold of the boys’ fingers. That damned knife had to leave his hand no matter what else occurred during this battle. Holland immediately grasped hold of the boys’ finger which had the ring attached. Surely if he twisted and or pulled the finger hard enough the boy wouldn’t be able to use the weapon any further.

Holland heard the satisfying sound of a gargantuan crack in the boys’ finger. Holland twisted his entire fist about that finger and rotated his hand. Hollands smile widened as he twisted away. The boys backward momentum only further provided him more advantages. With his opponents finger dislocated he moved forth and refused to let go of the knife. Holland bound the knife to the boys hand with his grip of strangulation. Mere ticks later Holland threw out his right shin, and aimed to slam it into the boys thigh; Holland threw the strike with all of the dedication and strength he had in his body. Despite the fact that Holland still hadn’t yet been aware about how proper kicks are thrown. This was in fact Holland’s first attempt at kicking an opponent with his shin, but being that the shin seemed to be hard then perhaps the attack would be effective. Adrenaline coursed through Holland’s veins, and the more he breathed the heavier those breaths became. The sheer temptation to slay the man was as clear as day, upon his face was the look of a predator, and Rhov was his prey.

[Rhov]

Pain. Shattering, fracturing pain. The burning sensation was nigh indescribable as tendrils of numbing flame shot through the whole of Rhov's arm. Worse yet, the man would not let, instead intent on twisting and crushing the Chaktawe's finger under his fierce grip. Tortuous waves of unyielding torment crashed against Rhov's mental and physical fortitude, tempting him to yield to the obviously superior fighter. But that just wasn't Rhov's way. He would fight on until his body failed him, until his mind collapsed under the strain of it all, until his last breath roared out of him in furious defiance. His soul screamed for victory, its riotous rage drowning out the whimperings of defeat which plagued the corners of his mind.

You want me to hold on to this knife? Can. Petching. Do, Rhov growled internally at his assailant, lips curling back in a wolfish snarl as the two struggled for dominance. This man may have been a skilled warrior, but he had never encountered Rhov's feral drive for victory before. His finger was undoubtedly dislocated, Rhov could not fix that. However, in the man's cruel effort to increase Rhov's pain, he had allowed the young bounty hunter full control of his wrist. With a normal knife, this fact would mean next to nothing. With the blade of his ancestors, it made all the difference in the world.

The key to fighting with an Angle-Knife was, unsurprisingly, angles. If Rhov's wrist had been disabled, his weapon would have been rendered useless. Luckily for him, his opponent seemed intent on causing Rhov the most possible pain instead of nullifying his ability to use his blade. With an animalistic roar, Rhov twisted his forearm forward against his opponents. If his enemy kept his hold on Rhov's hand, the outward facing curvature of the knife would surely bite deeply into the of his arm.

Near the same time Rhov pressed for the attack, his combatant responded with a fierce swing-kick to the thigh. The blow landed solidly against the meat of the Chaktawe's appendage, but so engrossed in battle-fury was he that the pain barely registered in Rhov's brain despite the damage. Savage cunning flooded the desert born's mind, seeing how the kick undoubtedly left his enemy open for a counter. Seizing the rare opportunity presented before him, Rhov attempted to force his enemy to the ground by grappling with his leg. Should it succeed, this maneuver would severely off-balance the man; enough that Rhov could ensure that his opponent landed at a disadvantage. While the man's blade was undoubtedly exquisite in both craftsmanship and lethality, he would find useless in the close quarters of a ground fight; the normally advantageous length of the weapon now clumsy in the potentially awkward position.

Close-quarters, however, is where Rhov excelled.

[Holland Rolandus]

Holland wondered if the idiot he battled against knew what type of danger he’d just put himself in. Rapiers are not to ever be underestimated, and Holland knew that even in close-quarters combat he had the advantage. Rapiers were weapons of versatility, and even when they couldn’t be used at a range they had three more advantages. The pommel was typically rounded, and the incredibly grotesque hand guard could act as a blunt weapon at any given time. As Holland held on to the boys finger before he released and pushed himself forth. Holland came to a swift realization and immediately swung his opposite hand which held the rapier forth. Holland punched away at the boys face using the pappen-heimer guard of his blade.

Holland made use of his weight against his opponents’ body whilst his leg was uplifted. Holland went forth and threw his right forearm about that of the boys elbow, and attempted to restrain his movements. Holland disliked that god damned knife and would rather die then not disarm the boy. The pappen-heimer guard of his weapon was on a direct collision course for the boys jaw. Holland was shocked at the fact that he simply absorbed such a forceful kick to the thigh. The pain thresh-hold of the boy was incredibly shocking, and Holland took a moment to absorb it all. Perhaps the opponents’ adrenaline was what prevented him from feeling the pain.

Holland hated every single moment of this now, and he couldn’t stand for the boy not to fall. “How, in the petch are you not falling on the ground?! I’m going to wind up breaking this boys damned leg if he doesn’t stop.” Holland never experienced such an aggressive fighter in his life. Aggressive combat tactics were never good to use due to the fact that they were often times reckless and sloppy. Holland wasn’t typically a very aggressive fighter unless provoked and driven by something. As for this boy, he never did understand why he fought like this. Holland had to speak to the boy and perhaps give him a lesson. Holland explained to him why he was losing in a few short words.

“The reason why you are not winning this battle is because you are being reckless, boy. When you are fighting like this? Like a petching baboon? You will always be easily triumphed even by those who are not even half as skilled as you are!” Holland exclaimed while he attempted to strike the boy in the jaw with the guard of his weapon. Holland attempted to make sure that he wouldn’t fall upon the ground as he did so. Therefore he took an extra measure to bring down the opponent with him. Holland leapt upward slightly and wrapped his ankle about that of his opponents own. Holland leaned backward as he attempted to strike the boy in the face with the guard of his blade. If Holland was going to fall he would take the boy with him and that was for certain.

[Rhov]

Heavy breaths shook Rhov's battered and bruised form as his body struggled onward against his foe. Exertion emerged from its laden sleep deep within his muscles, begging him to lay down and give up the fight. Rhov could already feel the bruise blossoming from where his opponent's leg had struck him, and he knew that he was beginning to push his body past its limit. This fight had to end, and end quickly if he had any chance at victory.

I'm beginning to think this wasn't such a great idea, Rhov realized as his enemy brought the oddly-shaped pommel of his rapier roaring forward towards his jaw. With barely enough time to react to the forceful strike, Rhov rotated his head so that the impact of the blow was reduced. The assault still struck true however, the hard metal of the weapon leaving the skin of his jaw split open in a crimson reckoning. Rhov feared what would have happened if the strike met his face in its full force.

A low, throaty growl burst from the Chaktawe's mouth as his opponent began to, of all things, lecture him in the midst of combat. Who was he, so high and mighty, to trivialize the way Rhov forced his opponents to face defeat? He called Rhov reckless. Foolish. A baboon, whatever that strange word meant. He thought himself the victor before the fight had ended, and diverted attention he could have placed on ending the battle on pomposity. The cold, creeping hand of fury lashed itself with ardent bonds to Rhov's mind. Pain forgotten and exhaustion ignored, there was only one thing that gleaned the youth's focus. One thing that held the whole of his attention. In his berserk wrath, one person stood at the edge of his warpath.

This man thought Rhov reckless? He had no idea what storm he had just wrought.

With a grunt, Rhov heaved himself forward against the man, capitalizing on his current attempt at leaning back. Once again, Rhov felt the dull crash of his opponent's pommel against the side of his face, the impact leaving an ugly red mark in its wake. Adrenaline pumping at its fullest, Rhov barley even registered the undoubtedly painful blow. His onyx eyes so filled with fury, nothing but his enemy mattered to the Chaktawe anymore. Defenses, caution, cunning; all such traits decimated before the oncoming tempest of his rage.

Should the two of them collapse on the ground as their momentum suggests, Rhov would endeavor to ensure he landed on top of his foe. With his right arm firmly locked by the man, Rhov relied on his free hand to inflict damage. Steel-wrapped hand crashing down with feral intent, the young bounty hunter aimed to choke the life out the all too talkative man. If the strike landed, Rhov would take absolute pleasure in pressing his metal tipped fingers deep into the soft flesh of his throat. Solid-black eyes would turn cruel, almost predatory in nature. His smile wolfish and harrowing, almost animalistic, would curl in savage pleasure at his pain.

"Don't you ever shut up?!" Rhov seethed, his voice harsh with fierce anger. Two men struggled fiercely for dominance in the dusty arena, neither willing to yield any ground to the other. Rhov was to stubborn to give up, to surrender to a stranger who had not yet earned his respect. Even as his body failed and faltered beneath him, his iron will strove onward. Rhov would die before intentionally yielding, and as his Guardian seemed apt to remind him, Rhov was far to stubborn to die.

Well, at least die quietly.