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

[Victor Lark]

Victor could not have anticipated how the weight of his own strike would slow him against the zith’s reflexes. As soon as he thought he saw the opening, it was gone again, and great furred arms were bearing down on him. Suddenly his own arms were bent and his desperate grip on the sword was loosed by shock and chaos. He whirled, saw only that familiar blur of blue, and reeled backward. The moment he found his fingers empty, his hands flew to the second weapon at his side. Hastily recovering from his compromised balance with a few long strides, he brandished the dagger blindly in front of him.

But Laute advanced just as quickly as Victor could retreat. He saw those terrible claws reaching for him and he knew he could not escape them. His arm and the blade at its end swept sloppily across the small of his opponent’s chest, hoping to carve a shallow line across his diaphragm and buy time for an idea to come. Then he suddenly shifted against the slippery sand and lurched forward, pulling his weight into a stab at Laute’s abdomen.

Victor would not have hesitated to dig the thing into the monster’s gut and leave it there, but he really only intended to force a dodge, so that he could reciprocate. He turned his body sharply so that he faced his opponent for a mere moment; then he rounded behind it, stepping lightly in a circle of a dance before he skirted away on tripping toes.

Only then did he remember to smile. “Stupid animal,” he mumbled with a chuckle, loud enough for the silent beast to hear. He knew he would have barely a moment before the zith turned to face him again, so he took that opportunity to locate Ulric’s fallen sword. His brief search also told him of a skirmish in the stands, a crater in the crowd with his teammate at its center, a thick smear of sun-polished blood opposite a moon-white face. He could not discern any expressions from his distance, but still he peered curiously at it as he heaved the sword from the sand. Clinging to the sword with both hands and dragging it through the air on his left side, a short sprint pulled him near the commotion, where he glimpsed three faces: smug, sick, and scarlet.

“Seven—” was all that he could manage before he remembered that he could not investigate too thoroughly; his focused face forgot to show concern or confusion as he ricocheted from the hard stone of the stands’ base and darted into the air, towards the arena again. Assuming he had been pursued, Victor flew at Laute and aimed again for his outstretched wing, this time choosing a piece of it that hung further than his claws could reach. As gravity pulled him downward, so he pushed his weapon. Whether or not it met its target, Victor would bury the blade deep in the red sand and the compacted dirt beneath. If it did, the animal would be pinned by that thick film of flesh until it ripped itself away or tugged the sword from the earth.

Victor’s fingertips swiped the gritty ground as he tried to recover from the fall without relinquishing his momentum to a break fall. If his dagger had not been confiscated by Laute’s gut, it was left somewhere beyond his reach. Unarmed, he stepped around in his old familiar arc, forcing himself to watch his opponent instead of the spectators, hoping he might hear it roar. There were different means to offend a beast than words... he just had to figure out what they were.

[Laszlo]

Laszlo closed his mouth, realizing it was agape. He killed her. In the middle of all these people, that behemoth killed her. And then he defiled her. Laszlo didn't hear whatever was said between them, but he knew that Symenestra weren't safe outside of Kalinor. One moment, the slender, frail woman was standing there wearing a smug little smirk on her ashen face, and in the next moment, she no longer had a face. Her bloodied and beaten corpse was now nothing more than a pile of flesh and splintered bone in the spectator stands. The soul was gone. That's not my race, he told himself, that wasn't my kin. And the funny thing was, as much as Laszlo tried to pretend he was a Symenestra, as often as he wished he was if only to belong to a piece of society, suddenly he couldn't make himself believe that she wasn't his kin. He had spent too long in Kalinor with their kind, learning their language and their customs. In every Symenestra woman's face, he saw a tragic choice of fates: either die as a mother, or live without ever passing on her blood. Now she didn't have to choose. When Ulric turned and looked Seven's way, Laszlo averted his eyes, pushing his hand through his auburn hair and feeling at his horns. That man was a brute, a killer, and he was looking this way. He couldn't help it; cold fear made the hairs on his arm stand on end, and he pulled his jacket shut at his chest. "Goddess," he murmured quietly under the shocked clamor of the crowd around them. Laszlo looked over at Seven, who like many others in the vicinity, had gotten sick at the macabre spectacle. A moment ago, he'd been talking to that woman, hadn't he? And he was like her, a Widow, even if his blood was diluted. Ulric had violently as well as verbally made clear his opinion on Symenestra, and Seven's appearance was hard to miss. Syna don't ever let that man see me at night, he noted inwardly. Laszlo gently placed a hand on Seven's shoulder, giving him a wordless, solemn look. He thought of offering to move from their spot, away from this oaf, but suddenly worried that moving away might activate some primitive predatory instinct and earn his attention. He'd rather stay as discreet as possible now. So after meeting eyes with Seven, he merely turned back to the fighting arena, squeezing the halfblood's shoulder and respectfully letting go. A roar erupted from the crowd as Victor Lark twisted and again narrowly avoided the blue creature's claws. There was a glint of metal in the intimate melee of bodies and wings, and Laszlo leaned forward to watch, knowing that Victor was in more danger than either him or Seven. The larger body of the crowd, now fixated once again on what they had paid to watch, gradually forgot about the Symenestra woman and the barbarian who broke her to pieces. A bald portion in the stadium crowds was all the respect that white haired woman received.

[Laute]

The silver needle slashed across his chest, his fur growing wet in the blood. A light cut but it pained nonetheless, and blind in fury he continued to advance. The cut stung in the air, clouding his senses.

A mistake, he found out, as the man drove into his gut. He roared, a murderous sound. The pain was excruciating, and he hunched over the wound, breathing heavily. This, this hurt. It had been a while since he had taken a wound like that and he froze as he breathed in, breathed out.

This was no small sting. It burned, fire rising through him. The small footsteps around him woke him from his daze, and he turned as quickly as he could, trying to prevent the dagger from jostling any further in.

Luckily the man had moved away, aiming for the sword once more. Laute was in no state to stop him now and focused on his wound instead, ignoring the man entirely. As it was, the sword had landed far enough to allow this.

The man didn't put as much power behind it as he could have, and though it was deeper than the last one, it was still a small dagger in the end. The blade hadn't sunk up to the hilt and with a grunt, he started to carefully pull it out. Hissing, he managed to get it out, dripping red from his blood.

This was not something he would give back to the man. Instead, he placed it in the small harness he had around his waist, the only clothing his people wore. In it already was his own bone dagger, which he took out. Placing the man's dagger inside, this was one weapon he would not allow out of his grasp again. Pressing his hands against the wound, he attempted to staunch the bleeding. It wouldn't work for long, though, as he would have to move his hands again all too soon.

Instead, he moved his harness up, tightening the belt around his lower abdomen. It should slow the bleeding until it clotted. Glancing at the red soil, he could see the soft spray of darker spots where his blood had run down.

This time the man would not surprise him. Hearing his quickened pace, still a little laboured from Laute's previous attack, he could guess his target. The same as last time, his wings, his advantage. Before the man could strike, he lowered them and rose, turning to face his opponent. Fortunately his shoulders had been spared of any damage, allowing him to use his wings without any further issue. It shook his torso, a sharp pain running up, but he was a hunter.

He was used to prey attacking back.

As the sword swung down, he angled his long legs to the man's chest. The man's attack was full of wasted movement, his sword hitting the ground instead of coming to a rest. As it was, it left him wide open for a counterattack and Laute would not waste it.

It was time the little man received a gift of his own. Dropping, he struck at the man's chest, the sharp claws on his feet sure to leave a mark should his foot miss the man entirely. The power behind the kick was not what it could have been, his wound not allowing for that. It was still enough, though, to hurt, and he would grin when the man grunted from his own painful attack.

The man tumbled away after, abandoning the sword where it stood. Keeping a wary eye out on the man, in case he had any other concealed daggers, he shoved the sword deeper into the ground. It might not be buried to the hilt, but it would take some time for the man to pull it out again.

And time was not something he would give the man.

Watching as the man danced around him in short circles, Laute waited to see if an attack took place. Placing a hand on his wound, he could still feel the warmth of his blood. However, the blood was slower, thicker, and as much as he could hope for.

Any move he made would once more open it, so this time he was careful. When the opening struck, he went with it. Wings lowered to streamline his body, he rushed to the man, attempting to tackle him to the ground. Should the man fall to the ground, hitting the earth with a soft gasp, he would then attempt to choke the man, hands tightening on soft flesh until he passed out.

(Despite the anger, the pain, he still remembered the rule. Don't kill. Don't kill.)

Otherwise, he would stab the man, his right arm in a sweeping arc as he aimed for the man's center.

[Siofra]

OOCEdited: Chose the entire body over the head. Decided this would be allowable since the posters thus far haven't commented on Siofra's actions. Sorry if this still bothers anyone! PM me if you wish me to change it back. =)

After observing the spectacle with a strange expression in dark eyes, Siofra finally moved and made her presence be known among the crowd. She had been concealed by two larger people but didn’t care. What she did care about was the potential for a good laugh. So far no one was laughing but Siofra knew that could be remedied in good time. However, now was the time for action and as the brute of a man stepped away from his victim, Siofra sidled her way out of her seat and clambered down to the body without a care for who was watching.

Gracefully, the dark-haired woman knelt next to the body of the dead, violated Symenestra that had callously chosen to antagonize a human brute over twice her size. Red eyes gazed with fear from a gaunt, blood-drained face. There was none of that laughter there. None of that cruel amusement that had taken her fancy before she had lost herself.

It was boring.

Siofra rolled her eyes as she pushed the body onto her back, her nose wrinkling at the scent of waste, blood, and venom. Sickly sweet the concoction smelled. Disgusting, like rotten fruit. Yet, like a wasp to a split pear, Siofra desired the nectar of the lifeless girl's hollow fangs... if they were actually hollow.

Siofra wanted the venom. The allure of the Symenestra's single most enviable ability had taken her when she was still younger in Lhavit. Rumours of their perilous bite, their canines that delivered a toxin strong enough to melt the body in on itself. Siofra could use that ability for so much in her every day life. She could break into houses, hurt people who would rather be miserable... The possibilities truly were endless for a Spider's venom.

Her eyes recovered from their distance and she looked down at the dead girl. Her body was wrapped, bound, in dyed cloth. Gore stained her skin, her cobweb hair, and filled her slack-jawed maw. Broken fangs greeted Siofra's dark eyes as she tilted the head, and she sighed. She truly hoped that the venom was generated elsewhere in the body or the corpse would be useless except for selling to that alluring Malediction store she'd wandered by once. Maybe the Symenestra had secrets against her skin, under her stained clothing, but Siofra couldn't count on that. As fun as it would be to find something valuable, she didn't think she would.

Lifting the body, finding it lighter than she'd originally suspected, Siofra took a seat near where the murder had occured, placing the body next to her. She didn't plan on missing out on another possible salvaging when the Zith and his prey... his opponent.... were so violently trading blows.

Siofra secretly hoped someone else would die.

[Victor Lark]

Only he could tell that the armor on his chest would retain scars from the kick of a beast’s claws; to anyone who was not less than two feet away, the shadowy material seemed unscathed. His breath was coming heavy now from the recent impact, but he tried to steady it quickly, tried to make the film of nervous sweat on his brow and neck seem coincidental. Despite it all, observations made in the stands were true. There was a gleam of amusement in the tiring silver around his pupils and a smirk at the corner of his lips, the kind that could lift in the face of more aches and pains than he presently endured. His persevering arms were barely raised from his sides, holding his balance as he kicked through the sand.

But those eyes could do more than laugh. He saw the way it held its stomach and he noticed the familiar sight of his own dagger’s hilt hugging the fur at its side. He weighed his options: there were no more blades at his disposal, but the height of his opponent’s shoulders seemed reachable with enough speed. If he could get behind him...

Then he leapt too far, straightened too long. The monster took that advantage as quickly as he always did. Victor realized what he was doing too late, moving a few paces backward as if it would help him. In the end, he had tried to escape to one side, but it was upon him too soon. His aching back collided with the ground, sending plumes of itching sand around them both. He laughed, said, “What did I say—aughh!” And then clawed fingers latched around his throat.

An ugly grunt of gasp was the last to tear out of his mouth before all air was denied entrance. It was all he could do not to panic, not to lose control. He flailed, wasted more energy than he should have, but not without purpose: booted feet thrust towards the wound on its belly over and over while his hands clutched and ripped at the forearms that pinned him. There he discovered the raised groove of a scar, and he tugged at it as if his own flimsy nails could reach through his armor and tear it open. Seconds passed like minutes. The familiar warmth of fading consciousness tickled the sides of his head.

If his efforts had not already released him, a dire idea would soon strike him, lighting in his eyes for a moment before they rolled back beneath shuddering lids. Victor’s body fell limp. He pulled his chest toward the ground, straining to keep it from heaving as he prepared his aching throat for the air that might soon rush into it. His heart was still pounding, but there was nothing he could do to help that. With his hidden mind swimming in a chaotic desperation to live, he played dead.

[Seven Xu]

In the filth of his own last meal, Seven pitched forward, numb to the comfort of the hand that had found its way upon his shoulder. There had been a univocal clamor of astonishment when Victor plunged his short blade into the beast and Seven had joined in, but the warm sensation of delight had been just as quickly yanked away when the winged figure lunged for the Ravokian’s throat. “No.” The word was nigh a whisper through a pair of sodden grey lips, but when the struggling figure in night leather went limp, head lolling to one side and mocking expression dimming beneath a shag of black bangs, Seven found his voice.

“No. No! No!” Every syllable was a deafening shriek, drowning in the din of a cheering, screaming crowd. “Gods! Fuck! NO!”

Had the Zith harbored any doubt in Victor’s act, a flash of white in a sea of faces losing his mind was adequate justification. Seven lurched to his feet, but his knees refused to hold his weight, and he staggered back into his body-warm spot on the bench. Tears burned the corners of his eyes and his lips soundlessly opened and closed a few times, revealing a line of claret stained teeth where a set of eager canines bit down on a fleshy tongue.

Seven’s mind was a thousand leagues away from the shattered corpse of the Symenestra and her bloodied killer—that had taken a bold seat next to him—his stupefied maw continued to mouth the word, ‘no’, and his mismatched nails dug hard into his small thighs.

[Laute]

The man's neck was easy to grasp, one hand almost encircling it entirely. His grip was a little stronger than he planned, for despite the slightly tough trachea, the throat has always been one of the softest parts of the body. The fleshy esophagus sank in, his nails lightly scratching his neck. Accidentally, shallow crescents of red appeared at the back of the neck, where the claws sank in.

They had crashed on the earth with a jarring thud, the man spread awkwardly beneath him. As he shifted himself to pin the man, he unwittingly left his wound open to attack. Unwittingly giving the dying prey a chance to fight back. He growled, gritting his teeth as the boot hit his wound, opening once more what was slowly closing. His hand gripped tighter in response, his other leg rising up knee the man squarely in the chest.

Laute's body rose slightly as he did this, his arms bending to accommodate the change in position. Small hands gripped his forearms, one attempting to tear open his scar. Old and already healed, it did nothing but anger Laute, old memories brought to the forefront.

That hunt had gone wrong, so badly wrong. And that prey, that man--his arms tightened once more, trapped in his memories as he was--his brother's broken body.

Bleeding. Torn. Animals fighting over the pieces.

A dying breath.

(and those tattoos, those marks that engraved the skin like his fangs and claws should have.)

"Not again," he hissed, leaning down, "Not again."

The man wouldn't win this time.

He didn't notice the limp body, the shallow breathing. Not at first, for this was no longer his opponent, no longer the short man who had fought and defended so impressively. He was taller, his hair longer, and Laute raised his right hand off the neck, looking for other skin to tear into. His hands, the cracks between armor, anything would do. Any scrap of fresh he carve into.

(Don't kill.)

Lifting his head from the face, he grinned. His right hand the man's face lightly, a thin trail of blood following his movements. How did those marks look again? He would give a more permanent set.

(Don't kill. Don't kill. Don't kill.)

The voice in his head grew louder, more persistent--

(DON'T KILL.)

--and Laute looked down at the small man he was sitting on. The alarm bells in his head, ringing, reminding him of the rules, and noticing the faint breathing and limp body, he realized the man must have passed out. Leaning down to the man's lips, he felt a soft breeze tickle the shell of his ear.

Still alive then. That was a good sign. Releasing the man's neck, he sat firmly on the man's chest. As the pallor of his skin disappeared, Laute pressed the mans wrists firmly to the ground.

[Victor Lark]

Air, sweet air, rushed like fire into Victor’s liberated throat. Despite all efforts, his reflexes left him gasping and coughing. Sand and saliva painted his lips and face; his arm flexed to wipe them away, but there was a terrible weight on it that left him immobilized. His head rocked a few times as his eyes scanned blindly around, trying to remember the world as precious oxygen inundated his starved brain. The first thing he recognized was the grating sting in the wounds on his head and neck, and the fresh shock of pain that raked the side of his face as he winced. There was the roar of the crowd, the shadow of the beast above him. Then he recognized where exactly he was.

“How impatient,” he muttered, unable to punctuate the jest with the sarcasm it required. He might have said more if the spasm of another cough had not pulled his attention from it. His head collided with the ground again, and he groaned. For a few short seconds, he shook and wrenched at his own arms, writhed and grappled and kicked, but the beast would not budge. Vehemently he faced the careful yellow snarl above him and, with a short inhale that he should not have spent, hefted an indignant wad of spit at it. Even if Victor’s opinion of his opponent managed to take hold on his furred face, he could feel the drops of stray vexation return to him in vain. He rolled his eyes.

“I’ll yield if you kiss me properly.” He shrugged. A smirk spread over his lips like jam on toast. “You owe a man that much, if you’re so set on mounting him.”

Victor did not expect a response. He had learned that much of this strange monster, at least. He was less ashamed of the match’s loss and more perturbed that he had not been able to provoke much from the unspeaking animal—at least, not anything he had been coherent enough to witness. Whatever the reaction, whatever the context, the word had been spoken: yield. And if Shale was as judicious as Victor took him for, his word would end the fight soon enough.

[Laszlo]

Consciously trying to ignore Ulric, Laszlo forced himself to focus on the fighting down in the pit. Victor went down, and wasn't moving. The roars sounded all around him as spectators both cheered and jeered, many of them rising to their feet in excitement. Seven's shrieking right next to him nearly drowned it out, the piercing volume of his voice causing Laszlo to wince. Though he felt a level of empathy for the halfblood, he had little to say to comfort him, and doubted anything could, anyway. He passed a sidelong glance to his acquaintance, taking in the desperation and fear creasing Seven's ivory visage. The crimson rounds in his eyes were completely bordered by white. Involuntarily connecting with some of his despair, Laszlo returned his attention to Victor down below, looking for a sign of life. The brunet Ravokian first turned his head, and soon began struggling underneath the winged creature's weight. Though unable to overpower the blue beast, his movements were filled with vigor and vitality. Blood-caked sand clung to his clothing and parts of his face, but he certainly wasn't dead. "He's alive," Laszlo observed out loud, as well as in a half-hearted effort to console the poor albino. Victor's lips were moving; he was saying something to the creature, but over the enthusiasm of the crowds, it was impossible to hear. "I think he lost." Another belated and useless observation. Laszlo leaned back in his seat, the adrenaline draining away as the excitement ended. Tilting his head, he rubbed at the back of his neck. "That seems so unlike him."

[Siofra]

She wanted them to fight some more. Those pretty little claws sinking into that pretty soft skin would sound so amazing. What would come out of the human if she salvaged his bones too? Would he carry anything more valuable than the knife he had seemed to fail so thouroughly with?

Siofra slanted a look sideways to her long-dead, cold companion. Fear was in the spider's eyes. Always that fear. Was she afraid the fight was coming to an end as well? She'd liked to have thought so, but the reason for the fear in dead rubies was obvious. How else could she have died?

Dark eyes rolled as Siofra leaned back. She had seen the globule of spittle and wondered at the response of the creature. Had the human aggravated him? And what was with that whimpering whine audible over the excitement? Was someone truly afraid for the life of one of the many humans?

Siofra fought the urge to look around. The spider's killer was up there and she prided herself upon her horns too much to beg for them to be lopped off with a stray look. However, she thought it would be funny if the man was the one that had let loose his fearful sounds.

The spider would have liked it had she held her tongue... Wherever her tongue had disappeared to.