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Post by Brylen the Hook on Feb 12, 2017 1:06:50 GMT
Pakellan had been the greatest city in the world, with the best entertainment. On the sand of the old arena, Brylen hefted his war-pick and shield and remembered when the stands had been full. Now a few ratty locals and travelers sat on the high stone benches, looking down at him. The purse was full enough to attract him, however. He could see it now, a leather bag that clinked merrily when the fightmaster shook it. The purse sat on a wooden tableat the portcullis grid where he'd come in.
A half-orc turned a wheel and the portcullis creaked up to expose the entry way again. Brylen inhaled sharply and smelled the old blood in the sand. Who or what would come through the gate? A brawler, a duellist, a mage, a dragon, a mob? You never could tell in this lawless arena. He took a moment to straighten his great helm and align its slits better with his eyes.
"Come on then," he growled, bashing his war-pick against the shield. "COME ON!"
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Post by Shadrak on Feb 20, 2017 7:34:09 GMT
The fight promoter was a skinny elf with bad hair. He talked fast and high and his accent was impermeable. He'd talked Shadrak into this by telling g him that there was no better way to learn how modern warriors fought. He'd neglected to mention the heat. The claustrophobic arena walls and the sand floor trapped heat like a clay oven full of mammoth meat. Shadrak was sweating under his furs.
Then again, the other man was probably just as warm, especially with that big metal hat wrapped around his face.
Shadrak grunted and hefted his second-best spear. With a flint head and a sturdy shaft, it ought to punch through the flimsy stuff these people called armor. If not, he had a club that might crumple that metal hat just fine, or crack the shield. Spear in both hands, Shadrak sauntered forward across the sand.
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Post by Brylen the Hook on Feb 21, 2017 1:19:13 GMT
ShadrakBrylen spun his war-pick experimentally and took a moment to adjust his grip on his shield. A sturdy leather loop around the meat of his forearm gave him some extra stability at the cost of maneuverability: to bash with the shield, he would need to get in close. Closer than that spear would allow, maybe. He eyes the haft of his war-pick, which was clad with steel strips. Breaking or splintering the spear seemed his best bet. What manner of man was this one, though, that he wore furs and carried stone weapons? Nine times out of ten, the unknown had a nasty bite. Brylen moved forward to meet him, but carefully, shield up and pick ready to swat the spear. He decided to leave the first proper move to the enemy.
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Post by Shadrak on Feb 21, 2017 1:33:45 GMT
So the big man was taking a defensive stance. For all his metal and bulk, clearly he feared Shadrak. The hunter grinned and took his club from his belt, shifting his spear to a throwing grip. That shield could cover the big man against a lot of spear angles, but big pieces of wood could only take so much. Shadrak reared back and threw his spear like he meant to put it through a mammoth. In the thrown spear's wake, he took his club in two hands and ran as fast as the sand allowed. His goal was to slam that spear and that club into the shield in quick succession, and break it or the arm behind it. Brylen the Hook
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Post by Harrier Wren on Feb 21, 2017 1:41:58 GMT
Pakellan had numerous charms, though admittedly less than it used to, back when people had actually lived here. Of all the reasons to visit the ruins of the capital, the arena didn't normally rank too high. But Harrier had grown moderately close to her current landlady, an Elven matron who ran a caravanserai just north of town. That estimable woman had strong opinions on life-work balance. "All those dubious arts of yours, dear, are ageing you before your time. Get your head out of moldy books about viscera, and go watch large, sweaty males beat each other to a pulp for your entertainment."
After a certain amount of convincing, Harrier had agreed to go get some rest and relaxation. Now she lounged on a stone bench high above the arena floor, drinking wine and eating dried figs. The fight was starting slow, but from the way both men moved, she had high hopes. Maybe she should have bet something.
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Post by Brylen the Hook on Feb 22, 2017 1:19:48 GMT
ShadrakThat windup telegraphed the thrown spear about as clearly as humanly possible. Moments like these, you just had to accept that the spear could be going anywhere, and cover as much as possible. The stone spearhead thudded into the shield and drove through, just above Brylen's arm. Splinters and chips of stone scratched him, and now the spear was dead weight on his shield. He brought it up regardless of the added mass, and the incoming club smashed into both the spear and the shield. The spearshaft snapped at the force of the caveman's blow. The club thudded against metal-clad wood and shivered it where the spear's momentum had damaged its integrity. Brylen grunted but kept a firm grip on the damaged shield. Quick as he could manage, maybe quicker than his enemy's two-handed grip could match, he brought the war-pick around in a quick sharp arc. The goal was to drive the spike into the left arm or side.
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Post by Shadrak on Feb 23, 2017 2:47:50 GMT
A fight could be won or lost in just one strike. Attrition was for simpler, lighter weapons than the enemy's war pick and Shadrak's heavy club. Shadrak gambled and pressed farther in, continuing along with his momentum. The pick's steel-clad haft bashed against the meat of his left arm, but the weapon's point went past his back harmlessly. Quick as he could manage, he let go of the club with his left hand and tried to snake it over, down, and around the enemy's right arm. If he got the lock, if he heaved up, he could pop the elbow at best and trap the weapon hand at worst. The enemy's obvious countermove would be a shield bash. Gambling again, Shadrak dropped his club entirely and braced the thick of his right forearm against the shield, attempting to grip the top edge. With luck, he could keep the shield at bay and do damage to the enemy's right arm. If it didn't work, he'd just dropped his weapon while the enemy still had a shield and a pick. But nothing ventured... Brylen the Hook
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Post by Harrier Wren on Feb 23, 2017 2:53:17 GMT
Harrier just about choked on her wine. From a careful detente, the caveman-looking fellow had burst into a charge, thrown a spear, landed a serious club-strike against the other man's shield, then dropped the club and gone into a grapple. Heedless, absolutely heedless, of the risk.
She didn't consider herself any kind of an expert on combat, but on occasion she'd stuck a knife in people who'd been asking for it. Dropping your weapon and going for the clinch was a serious kind of wager, and one that spoke of boundless confidence or total lack of civilized inhibition. Maybe he had a stone knife in his furs to match the stone head of his spear -- but no, he didn't seem like an especially tricky fighter. Canny, sure, but not deceptive, not yet anyway.
Just as she'd done when watching Macharian cavalry charge a raiding party of Suthurmenn, Harrier strongly considered intervention. She began muttering under her breath, building a certain degree of power, though she wasn't yet sure what she would do with it, if anything.
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Post by Brylen the Hook on Feb 24, 2017 1:35:08 GMT
ShadrakBy instinct, Brylen pulled in his right arm to keep Shadrak from trapping the elbow. The fur-clad man's wrapping motion didn't clinch Brylen's arm, but it stripped the war-pick from his grip as he snatched his hand back. The pick fell to the sand. That wasn't so bad, though: Shadrak had dropped his weapon too. Brylen's shield, pressed between them and gripped by both of them, wasn't going anywhere. He set his feet and shoved on general principle, but his main attack came from another angle entirely: a gauntleted right fist aimed for the side of Shadrak's head. If it connected...
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Post by Shadrak on Feb 27, 2017 13:52:19 GMT
Shadrak had freed up his left arm when the knight pulled back out of the attempted elbow-lock. As the punch came in, Shadrak bent his arm and got his elbow up, with his fist near the side of his head. It wasn't the strongest block around, but it blunted the impact of the knight's metal fist. He still staggered, though. That would leave a real bruise on his left forearm and the side of his head.
He'd curled up a little by instinct, almost crouching, in the aftermath of the impact. That made him vulnerable to a knee strike, so he powered up and forward, uncoiling. The intent was to sink his left fist into the knight's gut, just past the edge of the shield. He kept holding on to the top edge of that shield, since it was just about the only weapon the knight had left. He did his best to wrench it away and open up the knight's centerline as he bulled forward. With luck, he would land that gut punch and then shove the knight off his feet.
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Post by Brylen the Hook on Feb 28, 2017 4:18:15 GMT
A sturdy fist crashed into Brylen's stomach. Despite layers of cloth and ring mail, the punch hit home, and nausea got to his head for a critical moment. He couldn't quite brace in time. The caveman pulled his shield off to the left and slammed his fur-clad shoulder into Brylen's chest. Now, the caveman didn't have as much mass as Brylen, but he'd put a lot of commitment into that move same as he'd put it into all the rest. Brylen found himself, much to his irritation, losing his balance. He came to that realization around the time his rear hit the sand.
Using his shield for cover, he got back to his feet as quickly as he could manage. The problem, though, was that the caveman was now standing more or less in the same area as both fallen weapons, and Brylen was not.
A simple solution presented itself. Brylen dug his boots into the sand and charged across the few steps between them, shield-first, with an eye to slamming the caveman off his feet. And even if he didn't accomplish that, he might force the caveman to dodge away, maybe allowing Brylen a moment to scoop up his war-pick.
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Post by Shadrak on Mar 9, 2017 2:02:03 GMT
The shield blocked out Shadrak's vision. For a moment he was even in the blessed shade. Then maybe fifteen pounds of wood and steel crashed into him, followed by a far greater mass of manflesh. He'd tilted his chin up at the last second, or he would have had a broken jaw. As it was, the shield impacted his chest and belly squarely. He could feel the dull, flat studs right through his furs, just for the moment before the impact sent him flying off his feet. The breath exploded from his lungs. His diaphragm contracted and seized. Sand bashed him on the back of his head, and scattered across his mouth as he gasped. Choking on grit, he did his level best to roll over. It didn't go so well.
It rankled to rely on another man's mercy, but-
"Done," he coughed, hand raised, almost a plea. If the metal-hat man didn't pause, if he went for the kill, Shadrak had few options, and they all came down to throwing sand. He struggled for breath, eyes locked on his opponent.
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