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

by **Alanys Hyacinth** on October 7th, 2011, 5:03 pm

Alanys gave a satisfied smirk as her Zith gouged the back of his opponent's head, feeling herself grow inexplicably proud of the aptly titled "beast" that tried to hunt without killing the Human trapped in the arena with him. With her slight body neatly folded on a rough wooden bench, she easily melted into the crowd of faces had it not been for the one foot of space on either side of her body caused by overly wary Human men doing what they thought best to protect their families from the Widow in their midst.

Alanys had very nearly called out support for the Zith, but since such a thing was below her she wouldn't do so. Let the Humans call in their feeble voices. When Laute won, in which Alanys was certain he would, she would cheer for him as the Humans groaned their defeat.

A dark look glimmered in her ruby eyes as she turned her head to catch sight of Ulric, the man that had belittled the Zith Alanys had only recently met. Once again, she smirked at seeing him and then deigned it a worthy moment to speak.

"Do you envy my Zith, azo? I don't see you down there proving your manhood against him. Although, I admit his opponent is shyke." The swear sounded especially bitter in her Symenos accented voice, even though she spoke it as though it were to be sung. She ignored the other person that had rebuked Ulric, focused on the man at hand since the other wasn't in her direct line of sight. With another smirk she looked away, back to the fight, and licked her fangs pensively before spitting her venom out as it welled within her mouth. This was directed at the Human's poor comeback to Laute's reply. Verbal sparring wasn't even something he seemed efficient at.

This should go quickly.

oocUntil I read Seven's post, I didn't know posting as a spectator was allowed. xox

by **Ulric** on October 8th, 2011, 4:22 pm

“What… did he just say?” Ulric growled to himself, eyes smoldering darkly as he gazed at the sack of bones. There wasn’t a thing to give him pause. Not milky skin and the glint off smiling fangs, not even the tug on his shoulder as he rose from his seat, not the even the dirty, crawling semblance of a thing that sought to prickle him with ruby glare and crimson smirk. As he began to ascend the uneven steps, he spared her a scornful glance. “Spider, if you can’t hold your tongue I’m going to tear it out and shove it so far up your cunt that you can taste your own venom again.”

With that, he absently struck a cup of wine away from a drinking man, hearing the fired clay break on the ground, caring not where the amber fluid sprayed, and made his way through the throng. Robes and tunics of bright, varying colors were all he saw, faces pale and dark, twisted with fright and savage glee. But he knew where he was going. The sack of bones was not like to disregard his presence as he took hold of a man’s fringed collar, lifted him bodily aside, and stood there, grinning. “Your friend fights as if he has a cunt, too,” he growled, laying a heavy gauntlet on the sack’s gaunt shoulder. “There is no point in defending the petcher for having his arse beaten by the lesser of our foes. But perhaps you are right.” Reaching around his back, he ripped a short, heavy sword from its sheath, then spun, hurling it onto the sands.

“Now let us see if he can do any better.”

by **Victor Lark** on October 8th, 2011, 10:01 pm

And the zith silently resumed his orbit, carving careful loops in the sand around his prey’s single line. It was more amusing than distressing to Victor, to act the carcass to Laute’s vulture. He saw how he neared, and prepared himself for the inevitable impact. Was that anger in those insipid grey eyes? Victor could never tell with animals. He would just have to keep at it. For now, he thought he was ready for the next move; a few circles and a fist to the gut was an offensively repetitive strategy. A single cavalier movement, a deft bend of his torso, easily removed him from the feint—then threw him blindly into the real attack.

The shock of pain raked through his spine and paralyzed him for a moment, leaving him only enough time to release the dagger from his fist and bring his forearms to collide with the ground before his face did. Lacking his previous grace, Victor heaved himself up by his arms and scrambled to his feet. He scooped up his dagger with a handful of sand and moved away again before he had completely regained himself, stumbling and smiling. His back was aching even with that small exertion, but he would do his best not to show his opponent the weakness he had created. “Good one, Blue,” he breathed with a desperate chuckle. “Can I call you Blue? If your little monster mind can handle it, this would be so much less tedious if we could talk. Tell me, what’s troubling you? You can confide in me. I won’t tell anyone, I promi— woah!”

Suddenly the glint of metal distracted his eye; Victor might have been struck in calf by his teammate’s gift if he could not have fallen out of the way in time. He had just begun to discover how rolls seemed to be a faster dodge than any series of steps, but as he rose from that one and hastily pulled the sword out of the dirt, he found himself grunting at the pain on his spine. Perhaps it was not the best idea to put any more weight on it than necessary. He quickly resheathed the littler blade and seconds later he was on his feet again, pointing the sword warily at Laute with the flourish of an outstretched arm, keeping him at a distance.

Red sand painted Victor’s black suit and chafed in the invisible wounds on the back of his head. He tried not to wince as he tousled the hair there with his unarmed hand, as if it would relieve some of the irritation. But the shortsword was heavier than he anticipated. A nervous glare darted towards Ulric as he grasped the hilt of the thing in both hands, but it turned to something almost bitter when he saw the man’s hands on the flash of white beside him. He huffed and forced himself to regard Laute again, his feet resuming their dance.

Two could play the game of circles. Instead of his old wide arch, Victor turned tightly around his opponent. His shoulders spoke of the same defense, curled and hesitant even behind the gleaming strength of a sword. But they lied. This time he was searching, ready to take the offense when the moment allowed. He knew his vulture would not stay still around him, so he would try to move faster, to circumvent with preemptive speed. The perpetual string of words was rewoven again, and spilled from his mouth with barely any less ease. “You poor thing... maybe if you’d been born of a mother, you might know how to talk to strangers. I could teach you, if you like.” Then he saw what he was looking for: an instant in which the outstretched wing was open to him and maybe, just maybe, out of reach of the adjacent arm. He lunged for it, shoving the sword haphazardly at the blue leather membrane of Laute’s wing. “I could teach you a lot of things!”

by **Seven Xu** on October 9th, 2011, 9:21 pm

The inferno that had burned contempt into Seven’s wide red eyes had all but extinguished when his ass—then his feet—left the confines of gravity and he dangled feebly in the grip of a man thrice as large as him. He wanted to spit, though his better judgment kept his mouth closed, a flattened bow on a reddening canvas. When Seven was dropped, he was afforded a breath of relief before a heavy gauntlet clapped him on the shoulder in an approach that felt more overbearing than friendly.

“Thanks.” The muttered gratitude was more for Victor’s sake than his own. A cry from the field snapped Seven’s head back to the battle and he nearly lost control of his knees beneath the press of Ulric’s hand. He could hear Victor’s chiding tongue, though it was little more than an unintelligible mumble from a distance beneath the din of a crowd, and he could see the matted crimson when the Ravokian turned his head. Seven’s fingertips itched. The previous resentment towards the foul-mouthed man at his side surged again and a set of white bony digits grasped at the fisherman’s faded crimson tunic.

“How does this work? Can’t you stop it? He’s bleeding!” If Ulric allowed the halfblood to remain locked in place, those lithe appendages were now digging into the man’s forearm. Teeth grit, he had to swallow the urge to call out to the man he’d indisputably be patching up or dragging away. “Please protect him.”

Unknown to Seven, a glimmering violet weave had poured from his fingertips and across Ulric’s elbow. Unseen to those lacking the ability to construct djed, his pale hand bled what Seven had wished for most: protection.

by **Laute** on October 10th, 2011, 4:39 pm

It worked better than he expected, considering he had left his torso open to any attack. His knuckles felt the slight bumps in the spine at impact, the soft release of air at the surprise. There was a muffled thud after, of the dagger falling, and the man collapsed in front of him.

He was slower this time at the escape, less agile, and Laute knew that this time his attack did some damage. Not the superficial one to the head like before, which merely stung and bled, but something more permanent.

The man's small talk was meaningless. Snorting at the comment, he felt no need to reply. This was a fight, a hunt. Words would only get in the way. He never talked to his prey before he killed them and he saw no reason to talk to the man before him.

He heard it before he saw it, the displaced air leaving a soft whosh as the object shot through the arena. At its origins, he found a man--the one yelling before--and a familiar scent. It was that woman he had met before. Bemused, he turned back to the match.

The sword clattered as it hit the ground, dully, and the man just barely managed to escape. Watching as the man picked it up, the pained grunt didn't escape his ears.

Indeed, he had injured the man. Even as he held the sword, Laute could see the hand shaking lightly at the effort, enough that he tried it with both hands. His foe was probably not experienced with the weapon, considering his posture, and his swings would be more wild than anything. Using a sword was not as easy as just pointing and swiping, as his prey would soon learn.

He didn't like the tight circles around him, or the irratanting tone of voice. Next time he attacked, he should aim for the throat, just to quiet him. Watching warily as the man moved, he waited to find a point to escape this cage. Waited, and realized there were no good openings in this dance of his. The man's footwork was good, despite his injuries, and an gap available was by no means secure. Flying out seemed the only option, and raising his wings, he readied himself for the attempt.

He almost didn't notice the swing, but the man was still clumsy with the weapon, giving him a slight warning as he swung. Snarling, he tried to retract his wings in time, twisting his body as he did so. If there was a tear in his wings, he would fight to kill now.

Either way, there was an opportunity after this attack. With his sword held with two hands and wide arc in the aftermath of the swing, the prey would be open to an attack. In order to disable him, Laute would have to smash the arms, jarring them hard enough to drop the sword harmlessly onto the sand. After that, he would try to get at his vulnerable neck, his claws racking the flesh as Laute choked him till his arms fell limp and his head lolled back.

by **Alanys Hyacinth** on October 11th, 2011, 12:33 am

"You scowl like a scorned whore, Ulric. I now question your masculinity. Maybe that's why you allowed that aristocrat down there. He's the only man on your team." Her voice showed her contempt even though she flashed a small smirk.

Her attention returned to the fight, to the Human and the sword. Both he and the Zith had moved aside and the Human lifted the sword, but even Alanys could see the weakness in which he held it. Her eyes rolled and she looked back up to Ulric. "I correct myself. Your team mate down there must be a woman as well, albeit one with a man's voice. Is this common among your species?" Thinking she had said something suitably bitter and sharp, she looked back to the Zith and caught his eye.

A nod allowed relief to the notion that she recognized him. Indeed, she had come essentially to observe him and his team. She would not tell anyone this blatantly, but she truly did want the Zith to win and bring fear to every Human that would ever hear of it.

Red eyes glowed as the fight returned to full throttle.

by **Ulric** on October 11th, 2011, 1:18 am

Alanys, though having been asked nicely, persisted in her taunts, unaware that her target did not bandy words. Though what he’d growled at her pale, angular face might’ve seemed unlikely, it was more promise than curse. “You, calm down,” he grunted at the sack of bones, rose with a clank of plate, a slither of metal scales. He thrust out a hand, gave the pale locks a rough tousle. “If you’ve nothing better to do than wrings your hands and moan, then pray to whatever paltry gods hold your fancy.”

Turning away, he thrust the shield on his arm with a shrug of his shoulder, took up the bearded axe and made the spiked head sing past the faces of the crowd. Then he favored the spider with a nasty grin. “Your tongue, stick it out,” he spoke coldly, his dark eyes smoldering. “Your legs, spread them. Your cunt, lay it bare. Your bloody tongue in my hands, your tongue up your cunt, my hand in your foul guts, your agony at my hands. Your mistake.”

There would be no speaking, no weeping, no fleeing. The living spider was only hated. The dead spider was never feared.

Ulric swung the axe, the curved head singing as it scythed toward her neck, his shield ready to turn her feeble lash, her fangs, her clawed fingers. The crowd parted, shrieking.

by **Laszlo** on October 14th, 2011, 6:17 am

The crowds around Laszlo, smelling of sweat, food, and stale perfumes, teamed with primal, animalistic passion. It startled him whenever they cheered or jeered at the combatants in the pit below, distracting him from the actual fight and forcing him to observe the spectators themselves in curious bemusement. The Ethaefal couldn't tap into the same passions as them, leaving him (as always) a little detached from the issues at hand. He remained calm and silent, though it made his nerves tingle and his heart beat to know that the human combatant was Victor Lark, an acquaintance he'd come to know just a few days earlier. Laszlo was seeing a new side to Victor here, one he was intrigued by and eager to learn about.

Now the blue creature, that was interesting. It looked like a cross between a human and a blue bat, bestial and feral in the way it moved and eyed its opponent. The announcer had regarded it with the same respect he'd lent to Victor, so obviously the bat-like goblin was some sort of person. Was there a whole race of them, holed up somewhere? It was a magnificent thing to behold. Laszlo hoped to see it open its wings more, to show off those attractive, terrifying shapes. The creature looked as if it had walked out of nightmare.

Somewhere nearby, a loud, deep-voiced taunt was hurled into the ring at one of the combatants. Laszlo turned to find its source, astonished and a little amused by the vulgarity of it (not to mention it had been directed at who he would claim was his friend). Before the culprit could be located, however, a higher voice rose in retort. Laszlo recognized it, and his searching golden eyes became more earnest in their effort.

"Seven?" Were it not for the young halfblood, Laszlo might not have come to the tournament at all today. He would have heard about it, doubtless, from the other patrons at the Cubacious Inn, but he wouldn’t have known that Victor Lark was fighting today. The Ethaefal had only arrived after the throngs of spectators were already thick, and so he had given up early in his initial quest to find the little Symenestra. Now his ambitions were renewed.

The Ethaefal slipped through the crowd, pushing his way forward through the mass of warm bodies and humid air, heavy with the odors of breath and musk. He clenched his teeth in frustration as he found himself having to shove his way past a tenacious clot of tournament-goers, but as he came through to the other side, an unmistakable head of white could be seen ahead.

Laszlo paused there, seeing that Seven wasn't alone. A woman (a Symenestra!) stood near him, hissing something at a tall, thick human holding something in his arms, obscured by the crowd between him and Laszlo. Gut instinct told him he keep his distance from the commotion if he wanted all his parts working and intact. Instead he nudged someone aside to get a better view of the halfblood. His face was wrenched with worry, those blood red eyes trained on the dark haired combatant in the pit below.

"Seven!" he shouted, personally thanking his own height as he waved above the crowd to gather Seven's attention. He thought of identifying himself to his acquaintance, who might not remember what his dayside form looked like, but how many Ethaefal could there be in Alvadas that knew his name?

The Ethaefal turned to eagerly watch Victor fighting, welcoming Seven in friendly silence if he chose to approach. "That's Victor, isn't it?" Laszlo asked in an easier volume, surprised to hear the excitement brimming in his own voice. "I didn't know he could move like that. Look at him!" He leaned forward, watching in tense fascination as the bat-creature reached for his throat. "Look… he's loving this."

by **Ulric** on October 16th, 2011, 11:49 pm

There was no going back now. There would be a few regrets, perhaps, but that was something he’d deal with later. The spider leaned back, mouth gaping in shock, so that the shining head of his axe sheared off half of her nose, sent threads of blood lashing across screaming faces, over rich, flowing robes. “Got your nose,” he spoke with a low, chuckling rumble. The shield was already swiping around, metal rim biting deep into the spider’s cheek, smashing bone, knocking her sprawling. He drove a heavy boot into her ribs, heard them snap like kindling, and then he was reversing his deadly weapon, bringing the blunted nub down on the socket of her ankle. There was a crunch, a scream, lovely music to his ears. Then he kicked her in the face, made her fangs a bloody, broken ruin, kicked her again in the side.

“Ha, ha, ha.” He began to grin. He stamped on her shoulder, held her moaning, mewling frame down as he hacked down, broke the other ankle, struck it again just for good measure. Then he carefully set his axe on the bench, let the round shield slip from his hand, and knelt at her side. That stupid, smirking face was covered with sticky red, but he wasn’t even close to done. There was a subtle art to beating in faces. The gauntlet came down, further pulping her sharp, slender nose, struck at the deep gouge in her cheek, covering everything with specks of crimson. He felt no guilt, just a wonderful thrum in his chest, a warm rapture seeping through his bones. There was no place in this world for spiders. He struck her, smashing her mouth, opening cuts over both ruby eyes, hearing a snap as he made her jaw flop limply. Then he stuck his thumbs in her eyes, mashed them so there was a spur of ichor, raw reds and whites. That wasn’t good enough, though. He took hold on her limp wrist and heaved with all of his might, bracing a boot just below her shoulder, trying to yank off her long arm. That didn’t seem to work, so he just let it flop down, drove his boot into her face again.

Ulric let a hand drop to his hip, drew his short, curving knife, and began to carve at her ears, flung them to the bloody bench. He was fairly certain she was dead, but he wasn’t done. He forced her mouth open, a dark flood seeping from torn, crushed lips, and grasped her tongue between thumb and forefinger, hacked away the slimy shred of meat. Her long neck slumped back, head striking the rocks. “Spider, spider, on the wall, who’s the fairest one of all?” he chuckled.

“Not you, now that your face is mush.” Ulric roughly turned her over, hands fumbling at her garments, tearing at the threads. He was on the verge of exposing her pale arse, making good on his promise, when he saw a scrawny boy staring at him, mouth wide, dark eyes like saucers, threads of vomit dangling from his chin. This is wrong. He flung the tongue away, feeling only contempt for himself, and swiftly brought his axe down on the spider’s head, spraying the rocks with blood, bones, brains. Murderer. That’s what they’re all thinking, he frowned, casting a quick glance around, feeling a bit sheepish at his lapse.

Desank stared at him, head cocked as if to say, ‘You’re not supposed to beat people to death in public.’

Ulric scowled back. She was only a spider, though. Not a person. Then he jerked down his scaled leggings, his trousers, and sent a stream of warm, thick urine over the mangled thing that sprawled before him. There could be no mercy for spiders. “Carry on,” he gave a shrug, began to stride back to his seat.

Halfway there, he remembered the sack of bones, reversed course to set his great, blood-specked bulk on the bench. “Anything interesting happen?” He said mildly, wiping at his cheek as a familiar calm washed over him. “You must forgive me, I am very easily distracted.”

by **Seven Xu** on October 17th, 2011, 2:06 am

“Seven!”

The voice was mixed in the overwhelming drone of cheers, screams, and one particular set of angry taunts. The stunning face it belonged to stood out in a vast sea of ordinary; it practically glowed from within, and a pair of telltale horns (that warranted a candid glare the evening prior) curled beneath a shock of sun-drenched copper. Seven was acquainted with the Symenestra who would inevitably emerge from the beauty when the sun dipped below the horizon, and he made the immediate connection.

“Laszlo.” Tonight the Ethaefal was greeted with a warped smile as he approached his side, anxiety and relief fighting each other upon his ashen features. He hurriedly closed the gap between them, glad that he’d managed to distance himself from the Oaf when he turned on the woman and brandished his steely blade.

“I see him,” he snapped—albeit harsher than intended—when he saw his companion take another stumbling lunge at the cerulean monster. The halfblood wore his concern on his sleeve while his pale fingertips dug hard into his knees, turning sharp knuckles white. Despite himself, he couldn’t fault Laszlo for making a genuine comment. Seven’s face softened, and he muttered a conceded “He’s happy.”

He almost shared the sentiment; then the entire world changed.

A wave of chaos swept through the crowd, turning civilized society into a clamoring herd. A heave of bodies accompanied a scream; it pushed in on Seven’s already cramped world, and he was forced to take his vigilant gaze off of Victor. A hot ripple of dread washed over him and turned the back of his throat into a haven for bile when he fixed his wildly searching gaze on the Oaf and the spider that had provoked him. Her visage was unrecognizable; her wails had turned to little more than the gurgle of air escaping her chest through a gaping and bloodied hole where her tongue used to be. Her empty socket stare met his when her head lolled sideways. Seven felt his knees grow weak and he doubled over to vomit an acrid half-digested peach between his boots.

When he finally managed to lift his head, the blood-soaked Oaf had taken a seat—beside him. And then he addressed him. Convinced he’d spit bile if he opened his mouth again, Seven managed a weak nod, pried his watery eyes from the empty pile of flesh, and dared to turn back to the fight.

It was only when he lifted a hand to wipe a film of acid from his insipid lips did he realize he was shaking.