• Open • Fights of the Founding

[Russel Kandor]

42nd of Ymiden, 722

The air was electric. The city itself was charged with an infectious, excited energy that chained across every person in the town like lightning. Citizens surged with a relentless joy and unity that could only be found in the Empire.

And why shouldn't they be happy? This trial was the Founding after all.

Russel whooped with uncharastic excitement as his unit entered the the city square, his voice joining the endless din of chatter that filled the heart of Cahryst. Glorious sights, smells, and sounds delighted every sense as the small squad of Imperial Mages started their celebratory patrol through the residential jubilation.

Though, in all honesty, they were patrolling in name only. While they were dressed in their Imperial Dress Uniform, all sharp angles and pressed longcoats, there was little seperating a member of Her Empress' Army and a casual festival attendee. True, Russel and his compatriots would intervene should any tempers flare, but they were as eager and as willing to participate in the games, dances, and drinks of the day as any true-blooded Imperial.

"Alright, since this everyone else's first time celebrating the Founding in Cahryst, I'm declaring Captain of the Fun Patrol!" Fennel declared as she marched to the front of their group, her voice honey-sweet and edged with excitement. She pushed past Ava, their unit's default field leader, and turned to face the group.

"We've got your usual faire here, and booze a plenty. But! What seperates Cahryst from every other city in the Empire is the Symphony of Steel! It's a huge fighting pit built in the middle of the city for one trial only, and we. Are. Going. To. Win!"

Fennel, eternal spitfire that she was, punched the air on every punctuation. She nearly clocked a passerby across the jaw, but through the civilian's sheer luck he managed to swerve out of the 5'3" woman's range. Ava, however, looked thoroughly unimpressed. "We're on patrol today Fennel. We can't just split from our duties because we feel like it."

"This is why you're not Captain of the Fun Patrol, Avaline," Fennel shot back, sticking an indignant tongue out at her.

Ava's eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth to snipe back at her compatriot, but Russel stepped up to interrupt her before the pair devolved into bickering. "How's 'bout we go on a rotatin' schedule?" He offered, Imperial accent creeping in to fill the space his stutter had left when it vanished this cycle. "Half of us could start th' day at th' Symphony or th' festival, and th' other half could finish it there?"

A tense glare was exchanged between the pair, but both relented to Russel's suggestion. Ava grabbed Rala, a calculated move judging by Fennel's pout, which left Fennel, Bàs, and Russel to explore the Symphony on their own and free of duty.

The trio duced through the menagerie of stalls that set up across the square, with all manner of vendors hawking all manner of wares. Were they the shopping sort, Russel was sure their eyes would have been pulled by the colored glass and jewels on bright display under the Ymiden sun, but their group were searching for a gleam of a different kind.

True to its namesake, all three of young soldiers heard the Symphony before they saw the Steel. Metallic ringing of metal skating across metal sang through the air, and to the people of the Empire, there was no greater music. Blade against blade was an instrument unlike any other, and as soon as Russel caught sight of the shining steel which caused it, he knew there was no sight like a master at work either. As they pressed closer the arena came into full view. Quickly constructed benches surrounding a sunken sage of scattered sand, it was sturdy and serviceable. But what belied imagination was not the fighting pit, but those that battled within.

They arrived in the middle of duel. One man of average build stood against the whirlwind assaults of a brawny woman. She was like a wave, crashing against the seawall but unable to make it crumble. Again and again she beat her blade down on her opponent, training longsword blaring bright in the midtrial sun's rays, yet her opponent stood stalwart in the face of the unrelenting aggression. It seemed a stalemate, until the brawy woman used the tip of her blade to slide underneath the shield, catching the edge of the barrier and lifting upward to unbalance her enemy. He fell flat on the floor of the constructed pit, the woman's blade tipped under his chin.

The crowd erupted, and Russel could not contain his excitement either. The master of ceremonies for the Symphony quickly stepped forward, raising the hand of the victorious woman high. Cheers again soared high into the Ymiden sky, and she was handed a small purse of winnings before being walked off stage with her dueling partner.

"What an opening folks! But we here at the Symphony hate an empty stage almost as much as we hate a quiet crowd. So what do you say folks? Do we have any new challengers approaching the Pit?!"

Adrenaline pumping louder than any opposing voice in his head, Russel rushed forward to seize the opportunity. He leapt down from the stands, pumping his fists into the air to draw a cheer from the crowd. He was not usually a gloryhound, but Russel had caught the charge of the city. The electric air surged through lungs, and his eyes sang with excitement as he searched the crowd for signs of his would be opponent. He grabbed a training blade from a rack of dulled weapons, eager to display what he had learned these last cycles. He wanted this trial to be filled with laughter and bruises and memories.

And why shouldn't he? It was the Founding after all.

[Parlance]

42nd of Ymiden 722

Call it missionary work. Call it a well-deserved sabbatical from service in the Lightning Cathedral in Rharne. Or you could call it what it was, call it the tail end of a drunken bender. A drunken bender during which the Angler fed Parlance a batch of tainted 'Lick', filled his head with ideas and dreams of adventure and derring-do on the high seas, and sent him along on his way in exactly the wrong direction to satisfy those dreams of daring on the back of a boat. Drunken, riding backward off the saddle of his donkey, one hand on the reins, and one hand drinking his canteen of 'Lick', Parlance rode into Eternal Empire territory.

Eventually, of course, he did sober up. For a while. He tried to maintain at least some kind of buzz as he went along, but wasn't nearly as drunk as when he'd embarked upon this journey overland. Idly, he wondered where the river Zynyx might be. But eventually he came to the conclusion that somewhere along the way, he'd wandered the wrong direction. That was to be expected. Parlance hadn't gone the right direction in his drunken haze, and he wasn't possessed of the best sense of direction.

He came to realize that while drunk, he'd somehow wandered past Lake Lovalus, and well into Eternal Empire territory. Parlance had decided that this was good, even though it took him out of Rharne and away from his all-important duties sorting educational materials and cleaning the chamberpots of priestesses. Yes, the haze of a drunken escapade, in a fit of inspiration from Ilaren, must have led him this way for a reason. So he took to this as missionary work, something to take with the utmost of seriousness, at least in so far as the Immortal of revelry would allow.

The road led him to Cahryst. And there he found quite the sight upon his arrival. A group of warriors, their steel clashing and flashing, the electricity of the crowd. The essence of Ilaren, lightning, was palpable on the air in a way. There were people drinking, and so Parlance took another sip of his 'Lick', wiping his lips with the other hand as he lifted the reins. He stopped his donkey in front of the stage, as others were called to arms.

Parlance, in a moment of inspiration, dropped down from the saddle of the donkey, which was really just as easy as pushing himself off the poor beast. He was rather tall to be riding a donkey, but then...

He took to the stage, baring his chest and Ilaren's lightning veins from palenon, that streaked from his left hand to his chest. "I challenge you brave warriors of the Empire! Lay down your steel, and come to me as you are! Let's have a brawl! Come and conquer a true servant of Ilaren in her own way!"

This said, he took another sip of the 'Lick', and then hooked it on his sash, putting up his hands and readying himself for a fight, whatever form it came in.

[Russel Kandor]

As the foreign Ithecal landed on the stage, mere trills after Russel had jumped in, it was if lightning had struck the crowd. The Empire loved nothing more than an enemy to conquer, and calling down the name of an Immortal other than the Empress as your patron was a sure-fire way to paint a target on one's back. At the mention of Illaren, a series of boo's hissed forth from the audience. It wasn't that they didn't particularly like or dislike Illaren. It was just that she simply wasn't Raskalarn, and thereby not worthy of mention within the borders of her dominion.

The announcer looked at Russel, down to the training dagger in his hand, then back to him; ending the action with a shrug. It would be Russel's call to make; to drop the weapon and engage Parlance as the challenge requested, or to engage him with weapon in hand. Russel considered his options. He was much better with a blade than his fist. But if he ignored the challenge to meet him unarmed, then the crowd might turn and the joy of the day would be lost.

Sighing, he placed the blade back on the training rack. He stretched his arms and legs slightly, ensuring that they'd be limber enough for the beating they'd take in a few moments. He'd have to rely on his agility and pain-threshold to get him through this, but he was confident that he could at least give a show worth watching for the crowd. Besides, if he didn't shut the drunk ithecal up, someone else would surely jump down from the crowd and finish the fight for him.

"Well folks, it seems we have a fight!" the announcer shouted to the crowd of onlookers as Russel approached the center of the stage. "A Stalwart from our own Empress' Army has risen to the challenge from our foreign visitor! For the newcomer's benefit, let me remind you all that this is a non-lethal bout! First to concede or first knock-out is the end of the match!"

Russel nodded in acknowledgement, adrenaline valiantly beating back his nerves about having so many eyes on him at once. The announcer raised his hand to prep both of the combatants. The youth saw his ithecal opponent raise his fists in response, and Russel quickly went to mirror the stranger.

"Are you all ready?!" the announcer called out to the crowd and to the combatants. The audience cheered, and Russel nodded his consent. The announcer drop his arm.

"Fight!"

Russel launched into action. He rushed forward, taking a few probing punches against his opponents guard. There wasn't any real strength or power behind them, as they were exploritary; testing how his opponent would react to being suddenly pressured and how strong his guard was without burning any real amount of energy. He was baiting a reaction, hoping that Parlance would counter with a full-fledged assault.

If Parlance did, Russel would raise his guard and take the punishment. He would stay on the defensive, keeping his guard high and letting Parlance through himself into an assault while trying to keep an eye open for a counter.

If Parlance didn't, Russel would keep probing his opponents guard; turning up the pressure as time ticked by. He'd slowly ramp up the speed and pressure of his punches, throwing more into it until he had Parlance backed into a corner.

Both of his attempts at pushing Parlance into either an aggressive or defensive position were amateurish and not particularly well-hidden. His moves would be fairly well-telegraphed and counterable by a more experienced combatant. Still, Russel would hope that his Imperial conditioning would win out over Parlance's drunken strength. How Parlance responded would either give proof to the youth's tactics, or show him how wrong he was.

[Parlance]

Parlance took the intervening moments, where the announcer was explaining the situation to the crowd, to perform a small ritual he’d learned in Rharne. He took a small wooden cup from the belt of his robe, which hung by a rope, and placed it on his side of the stage. There, he poured a measure of Lick into the cup, and intoned quietly, “For Ilaren.” It didn’t matter how much sound he made, Ilaren was the Immortal of shouts and raucous laughter, as well as the silent whisper. She would hear his devotion, and that was satisfaction enough.

Then he turned around, resuming his stance and holding out the flask of Lick to the Stalwart soldier, “To battle! I salute you.” Thus, presuming the Stalwart wouldn’t drink from Parlance’s own flask, the ithecal took a swig of it, and then tucked it away on his belt.

Then, it seemed, as the announcer said, they had a fight.

Russel’s approach seemed balanced and measured against whatever approach Parlance took. The ithecal, though he was no strategist or even really practiced at unarmed combat yet, could tell that he was being tested for the moment, his abilities slowly and methodically being teased out of him, so that his opponent could make a more informed approach as they went along.

Even so, Parlance wasn’t satisfied to lay back and play defense, or even to play to a balanced strategy. His attributes shone most brightly in his more than adequate strength and endurance. He had a small amount of training in the unarmed arts, but it was marginal at best. He’d not yet earned his knots from the temple trainer, before leaving for these territories.

Still, he knew how to throw a punch or a kick. Russel seemed content to play defensive at first, as Parlance came at him full-force. The ithecal delivered a punch, which the lad managed to get his arms in the way. On contact, there was always a good amount of knowledge to be gleaned. How strong were their limbs? How much energy behind their stance, and how tough were they. He could tell that while the lad’s muscles left something to be desired in terms of strength, they were well-tough. And the boy had energy enough to keep pace with Parlance’s approach, as one punch fell upon the lad’s block, another came through to attack him at the midsection.

Parlance paused a moment, after these attacks, and waited for an opening. If Russel began to press his counterattack, Parlance would fall back in a slight hop backward, and then come forward to kick him in the shin.

[Russel Kandor]

The blow landed solidly against Russel's forearm, the strength behind it sending his feet skidding backwards a few meters. His skin seemed to ripple from the impact, and he could feel the force of the punch down in his bones. The youth winced as his skin was pressed down further against the subdermal vines which writhed under his skin, barbs peeking out from the point of impact and tearing through his flesh. He hadn't account for how a blow would affect his curse, but the blooming points of pain let him know exactly what he could look forward too should he get hit again.

But that was fine. Russel could deal with pain. He'd been dealing with it every trial for the last few seasons. What was a few punches compared to that?

As he still reeled from the first blow, two more followed swiftly after. Another punch landed solidly against his block, but this time the excess pain did not catch him by surprise. He lowered his guard slightly, to check for an opening, but that action was swiftly punished by a blow against his midsection. The wind was pushed out of his lungs, and Russel wheezed out his displeasure as he struggled to catch his breath. His opponent was taking advantage of his defensive play, truly pushing the extent of Russel's pain tolerance as one blow followed another.

There was a brief reprieve from the assault, which Russel took advantage of to try and pivot the rhythm of the fight. He learned plenty from his opponent's aggression, and through his fist forward in a blind haymaker in the hopes of catching Parlance's chin in a lucky hit. However, it seemed the foreign Ithecal was prepared for the attempted advantage, taking a slight hop backward to dodge the punch and following with a forward kick against his shin.

The blow sent Russel's forward leg flying backward, making the youth quickly lose his balance and fall to a knee. The crowd ooed with displeasure as the kit came in, but Russel didn't have time to pay them any mind. Getting grounded in a fight was a near death sentence, and as soon as his knee touched the ground he used his good leg to shoot himself forward into a front roll. He didn't want to take a chance of getting pinned by a stronger opponent, and would have rolled forward regardless of if Parlance took advantage of his downed position to swing at him.

Back on his feet, Russel breathed through the pain of the prior blows. It would take more than a few well placed punches or kicks to get Russel to yield, and the soldier wasn't intent on giving Parlance the opportunity to aim any more. Dashing forward with his block held high, Russel tried to take the tempo of the fight from Parlance. Attempting to put the Ithecal on the backfoot, Russel led with a hook kick aimed at the foreigner's chest. He then followed with a quick series of jabs against his opponent's guard, trying to make sure he didn't have a moment to search for a counter. Then, should Parlance keep on the defensive, Russel would go for a full-force haymaker to try and break his guard. The strike was wild and untrained, and would leave Russel sorely exposed on the left-side even if it did connect.

However, if Russel did manage to break his opponents guard, he'd rush to close the distance with another hook kick, hopping to unbalance his opponent enough send him to the ground. The youth had a plan, but didn't necessarily contain the skills to ensure that it went through. It would be a toss up if the kick even connected, allowing Parlance plenty of opportunity to finish the brawl properly.

OOC

I'm cool with Parlance taking the victory and ending the fight with your next post (if you're cool with that too!)

[Parlance]

Date

The wyvarnth took the small victory of a blow upon Russel’s forearm with renewed faith in his own abilities. He raised his hands nevertheless as the man skidded back a few steps. The youth wasn’t too skilled a fighter, but it was obvious by the way he took a punch that he wouldn’t go down easily, even if the pain registered a little more on his face than Parlance’s usual opponents.

But as Russel appeared to be committed to defense, Parlance opened his own defenses in favor of a more aggressive approach, pummeling the youth with his fists, landing blow after blow, and making him concentrate on his upper body while a plan hatched in Parlance’s mind.

When the kick landed on the youth’s shin, once again he was driven back. Parlance had to admit to some disappointment, if this was the only unarmed fighter that had the guts to face one of Ilaren’s faithful.

Still, the haze of the ‘Lick’ was still buzzing around in the Ithecal’s brain, and he felt less pain than he usually would for all the raw, bare-hands blows he was delivering to this youth.

Once the youth rolled forward, Parlance tried to deliver stomping kicks, but his opponent was a bit too fast on the ground for him to make any of them connect. Still, the moves ensured that he didn’t make too much distance before Parlance was on him again.

Yet this time, the youth didn’t disappoint, but began attempting his own offensive posture. The first attack, a hook to the chest connected lightly with the Ithecal’s ribs. He huffed in surprise, but maintained his position. The next few punches were defended against, however. Parlance combined offense with defense, as he went to chop at the incoming hands with his own forearm strikes.

The haymaker was coming, Parlance could almost sense it before it ever took shape. So when Russel threw the punch, he was already ducking and weaving beneath it, and spinning to deliver a tail-strike to the back of Russel’s knee. This caused him to fly off balance, landing on his knees. Put in a position where he couldn’t stand immediately, or perform one of his swift rolls, Parlance rose to his full height, and delivered a slow but powerful punch, to knock the youth to the ground. With a resounding SMACK, he knocked him to the floorboards. And the bell sounded to mingling boos and cheers, as Parlance rose his hands to the crowd.

After a moment, Parlance stooped to help the youth to his feet, if he was still conscious. And he clasped hands with him, in respect, raising his hand along with his own.

“I honor this youth’s courage! The Empire doesn’t lack for it, I see! Nor the ability to take a good punch!”

Thus the bout was won, and Parlance would go on to teach people how to brawl, if they would wish it.

Off Topic

Heya, sorry sorry sorry about the lateness of my reply. I’ll post this as a review request to the queue, if that’s okay. I figure you want the skills you claimed as being used? Thanks for the thread!

[Oberan]

Review Rewards

Russel with one L

Points awarded: 15

Knowledge:

Combat - Blades: x1
Combat - Unarmed: x2
Athletics: x3
Endurance: x2

Magic: No magic exp

Other: +5 renown. You lost a public brawl, and though you held your own, you're less likely to stick around in the public consciousness as the participants in other, perhaps more spectacular, bouts. Maybe for the best, considering some might say you did your uniform a disservice.


Parley?

Points awarded: 15

Knowledge:

Combat: Unarmed: Backstepping, and using the spring of the backstep to power a forward kick
Combat: Unarmed: A man can't stand, he can't fight.
Combat: Unarmed: Posture is important to enforce leverage of stronger blows.
Combat: Unarmed: How to deliver a haymaker.
Endurance: Knowing one’s own toughness level
Socialization: Saluting a brawling opponent
Strength: Knowing one’s own strength.
Tactics: Anticipating a blow to come from your opponent

Magic: No magic exp

Other: +10 renown. You won a public brawl, and openly proclaimed your allegiance to an Immortal other than Raskalarn. If anything, that alone made you stand out quite a bit, for better or worse.


Notes:
Ah, a good old bout of PvP fisticuffs!

It's not easy to write one with good flow due to the nature of pbp forums, but the both of you did great. The action was well written and both of you left plenty of room for the other to respond however they wanted, AND took damage from each other's attacks, blocked or no. I do appreciate that sportsmanship.

I expected the fight to go on a little while longer, but I do like how swiftly it ended as soon as Parlance got an opening to lay down the punishment. Sometimes all it takes is one good punch.

If I had to highlight one part in particular as my favorite piece in this thread, I'd have to give it to Russel's introductory description of the festival and the patrol. It's very vivid and pulled me right in.

In short, great writing from the both of you. I enjoyed it quite a bit.



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