Closed For Justice! (Razkar, Xalet)

[Jackalope]

79th Day of Winter, 512 AV Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. Crime was a serious thing in Riverfall. Or more aptly, in any territory Riverfall claimed as their own. To wrong someone would be dealt with as only the Akalak's knew how. Combat. Glorious combat. For only that could determine innocence. Blade to blade, sword to shield. Beautiful, wonderful, combat. Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. Blood spilled demanded retribution. Blood spilled could not be forgotten. Especially when there was an unexpected survivor. An unexpected witness and a culprit who..stands out. It was time to move and see what action would reveal. The truth would be born this day. Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. Razkar, wherever he was in the city, would hear them coming far off, though their intent wouldn't be clear until they were nearly upon him. A half dozen Akalak, heavily armored in various levels of chain or plate. Additionally, they were armed to the teeth, lakan, bow, sword, and shield amongst them. Razkar's reputation as a fearsome fighter had indeed began to spread. As though they were ready to go to war, they moved in formation, focused on Razkar. He was their target, the accused, the alleged criminal. For an Akalak as injured as he was to make this announcement that it was indeed him who had assaulted, killed, and stolen from the group of guards just barely outside of Riverfall's entrance was a bold one, and a claim that couldn't be taken lightly. "Razkar," said one of the Akalak, his voice booming, commanding. "You are accused of the death of no less than two of our brethren, occurring within the territory which we govern." The speaker's hand rested on his lakan ready to draw and defend should the Myrian try anything funny. His voice carried a contempt, his judgement clearly passed, but the law had its own voice in this story. "You will defend yourself in combat. The Gideon Combat Arena awaits you. Come with us peacefully or this day will be your last."

[Razkar]

Warren could handle a Myrian outside by the fountain. After all, the city was a pretty eclectic place. Races from across Mizahar visited Riverfall, made it their home and coexisted quite well. The grocer had seen many-armed Ephyrians walking with scale-skinned Charoda; iron-limbed Isurians chatting with pale, bloodless Nuits. But Myrians, well... they put the hackles up everybody.

Especially when they started sharpening weapons.

The balding human wasn't sure he'd heard it at first. A high, keen scraping of stone on wood. At first he ignored it, concentrated on getting the new melons from Ekytol-

Then he heard it again... and again... from outside.

He peered out his window and saw the dark-skinned savage sitting quite nonchalantly by the fountain, clad in the most mismatched cloak he'd ever seen (best he not find out it was sewn from scalps, then, really), breeches and a shirt of studded leather. He had a short sword in one hand... a gladius, if Warren remembered correctly, and was running a whetstone over it in smooth, practiced motions. First one edge, then the other, and then he turned the blade and did the same thing...

Warren watched, mesmerized despite himself. Elana had to scold him back to reality from behind the counter. The figure seemed so... engrossed. But not in a cold, clinical way. The Myrian was holding it with careful hands and shining eyes. Almost... reverent.

"What are you looking at?"

"There's... There's a Myrian outside."

Elana shuddered dramatically but, of course, couldn't help herself and came over to gawk as well. Two pale heads packed into the same window pane, rubbernecking shamelessly, wondering, gazing.

"What do you-"

Then Razkar's head snapped over to them and pinned them both with a wide, obsidian glare.

He chuckled as the two jerked away from the window, shock written all over their faces. That never got boring, though he knew he wasn't exactly improving the image of Myrians the world over. But that wasn't his concern. They would always be seen as savages and, since they did not care for anything outside their sacred jungle, what care they what the rest of the world thought? The views and vanities of barbarians were irrelevant in the vicious jungle.

Contented with his little trip to Riverfall so far, he continued sharpening his blade. The Kendoka Sasaran would fling open wide its doors soon, and he would test himself yet again in the schooling house of Mizra Aqdas. The sun was high, the air was crisp and the water was pleasing to his ear.

And Haev Provedan was biding his time. He was sure of that. He held up his gladius and examined the edges. Not a blemish or a mark and when he ran his thumb up it, he barely made an inch before he drew blood.

"Soon." He whispered with a faint smile. "You will have more."

He was halfway through his hand ax when he heard the clanking. Chains. No... it was getting closer. To tight for that. Sounded like... armor. He frowned and looked down the street, seeing the six towering, gleaming figures trooping towards him in a tight formation.

His curiosity turned to concern when he realized their destination was him.

"Razkar. You are accused of the death of no less than two of our brethren, occurring within the territory which we govern."

For one, brief moment, Razkar panicked. He considered running, but the six had already fanned out to half-surround him. He could make to his left, batter his way through the one holding a spear, try to lose himself in the warren of streets... but to what end? He would be a fugitive with few friends, and he has much left to do in the city walls. It would be counter-productive.

Besides, a more philosohical and pragmatic part of his mind countered, this was bound to happen at some point.

"You will defend yourself in combat. The Gideon Combat Arena awaits you. Come with us peacefully or this day will be your last."

Ah... now that stoked something very different in Razkar. The more civilized part of his mind, concerned with the prospect of a trial and due process and witnesses was drowned out by a growling anticipation. He had heard of the Gideon Arena, where justice was dispensed in true Akalak form. He'd applauded the strange-skinned race of that, at least. They knew how to settle matters properly.

But he had yet to test his skill and will on those sands.

So he cocked a curious eyebrow, stood - and was briefly gratified to see a twitch of tension from his half-dozen "escorts" - then sheathed his gladius with a smooth hiss of steel on leather.

The Myrian nodded and spoke for the first time.

"Lead the way."

[Jackalope]

A few of the armed Akalak gave an almost audible sigh of relief as the Myrian's weapon found itself returning to it's sheath. While some were eager to tear into the foreigner's flesh, others realized that if the tales of his murderous ability were true, they'd rather allow the law to run its course. This tiny man stood accused of killing two of their kind, after all, and what good would it do to lose another to slay this man in the streets? No needless blood would be shed. Onward the small group went, Razkar in tow. They were vigilant in keeping their eye on the accused, unsure if he would flee if given the opportunity. There'd be much shame were that to happen. Yet for a moment those worries would be forgotten as the arena came into view. Tall, beautifully crafted pillars stood before the entrance, the entire structure a magnificent feat of engineering. The Gideon Combat Arena managed to stand out, despite being in a city full of magnificent construction. The small contingent led Razkar up the almost pristine stairs towards where he would meet not only his opponent, but to where he would decide his fate. "Your accuser is here, but as he is still recovering from the crippling injuries he claims you were part in giving, a champion has been selected to represent him in combat." The leader of the small group pushed the large oaken doors wide open, an almost satisfying groan as they gave under his massive strength. Waiting in the foyer were two Akalaks. One seated was seated, having a body devastated by injury. Scars adorned his visible skin, muscles seemingly withered away , looking almost a husk of what an Akalak should be. The other, however, was everything an Akalak could be, and some would even argue more. "Discuss your terms of combat. This will be a match to points, not to the death. You decide how many points, as well as requested any limitations to your opponent, though they need not comply. We will await your choices."

[Xalet]

Xalet was still getting used to the culture of his people, whom he had been so distant from for so very long. So very accepting was he, however, toward any peoples he felt that strong connection to. While he did not understand or condone all of the ways of his Akalak brethren, he found some strong likeness in their pursuit for martial perfection. True perfection was that faint ghost of a possibility that Xalet had been told of from his mother. Perfection in the way only an Akalak could understand, the complete balance of two souls working together. Over thirty years and he couldn't even be sure he could be considered close to such a thing. In an attempt to embrace the lust to test himself that both Xuphim and he felt, Xalet found himself now within the halls of the Gideon Combat Arena, a place he had visited shortly upon his immediate arrival to Riverfall, but could never truly understand until he was asked to participate on behalf of another Akalak. There was no shame in that, he felt. You fought when you could, you rested when you couldn't so that when you were well you could fight again, it was even presumed for the Knights, whom had existed in a marital society for over two hundred years. It was the first time Xalet observed his opponent, and although his gaze was unnervingly steady it was not cold. Xalet was seemingly always calm on the outside, but he was not unfeeling. He wore the entire wardrobe of his Knighthood, much like he would on any particular day of work, although his helmet was removed as was typically appropriate during any social gathering. His stringy black hair, matted and seemingly always wet wriggled its way down his face and neck. His frame was enormous, to the point where he even had to seek out the tailor Rosela to make for him a custom gambeson, the Knights no longer possessing one to fit the breadth of his shoulders after his old one had finally fallen to pieces. A heater shield of metal and wood was slung across his back with a giege strap, while his pair of short swords were sheathed, one against his left hip as was appropriate for any right handed swordsman, while the second was laid horizontally across the small of his spine, the handle likewise pointed toward the left. "We had something similar..." the Knight started, his tone was low and quiet, "...in the Knighthood. It was done to three points, a point was gained by scoring a blow unable to be answered in a three count. Less common was a fight to the pain, when one could no longer raise their weapon due to injury or exhaustion. In this system, I imagine that would only require 1 point. My only request is that we not utilize our weapons with edge or point. To hold back so substantially without killing would be difficult. For me. Otherwise, I would request anything goes."

[Razkar]

Razkar's gaze fell first on the twisted thing that used to be an Akalak, hunched next to the behemoth in armor. Dark, dead eyes studied the mutilated and withered creature that had once probably stood as tall and proud as the one next to him. He recalled the day correctly, and all eight of their target's Akalak bodyguards were fine specimens. To see one reduced to such a state could certainly arouse one's pity.

"Could" being the operative word. As it was, Razkar was just glad it was not one of the two he had slain. It would have been embarrassing to have to return the cripple's scalp.

Then the barbarian next to him spoke and Razkar's eyes flickered to him with clinical interest. He was a foot taller than him, but after nearly two seasons in Riverfall he was used to that. His physique, though... it was gigantic. Far larger than the usual Akalak frame, and that was a race to whom "puny" had no meaning. He seemed to be jammed into thick plate armor that covered him from foot to neck, leaving only his face visible.

Chiseled, proud features, ah, a true Akalak: arrogant and self-assured to the extreme. At least that was Razkar's first impression, until he noticed the Akalak's gaze. It was steady, piercing as his own, but there was not brash judgement in his eyes. Only a cool, consistent... controlled.

Razkar's eyes flickered down to the crest on his armor. He had heard of something called "knights", but he knew not much about them. Only that they were warriors, reportedly the finest in Mizahar.

The Myrian's eyes glittered for a brief moment. Such a challenge... worthy of his Goddess-Queen.

His escort prattled on and Razkar barely listened, noting instead the arms adorning what he assumed to be his opponent. Keen eyes saw the shield, broad and wooden-based with metal over the top, strapped to a back far wider than Razkar's. Two swords, one at his left hip - right-handed, then - another peeking from behind his back. Would he duel with both? Maybe, but the shield was an advantage...

"We had something similar in the Knighthood."

Finally, he heard his opponent speak. It was the deep, resonant drawl he had come to know from this race of massive males. He wondered idly how old the knight was. It was hard to tell with them...

"It was done to three points, a point was gained by scoring a blow unable to be answered in a three count."

Razkar grimaced almost without realizing it. Points? They would throw him into an arena to duel on points? It was too... formalized, for his liking.

"Less common was a fight to the pain, when one could no longer raise their weapon due to injury or exhaustion. In this system, I imagine that would only require 1 point."

Now the Myrian's face creased into a small smile, showing teeth filed to points. Ah, that was more to his liking. A contest of will, skill and flesh until only one remained standing. Myrians understood things much better: an enemy was overcome when he was bruised and helpless at your feet, preferably gutted and boned, too. Anything less left that nagging doubt...

"My only request is that we not utilize our weapons with edge or point. To hold back so substantially without killing would be difficult. For me. Otherwise, I would request anything goes."

First there was a frown, and then almost a shrug. It wouldn't be to the death, anyway - more's the pity - so what would be the point in having actual weapons? The knight was right, it would hinder them more to have to hold their warrior's instincts at the very cusp of their blows. Better to have... what was the expression... full contact? Yes, that seemed correct to his mind.

He noted as well the "For me" and cocked an eyebrow, but nothing more. He did like the last two words, however: anything goes. How else could it be in a contest such as this, with his liberty and likely his life at stake? Anything less would be almost insulting.

But he was not so eager to leap into battle that he was not pragmatic. Without his ax or gladius, steel that had served him well and been honed to a killing edge, against a metal-clad enemy with wooden weapons in a contest that would continue until one or the other was unable to resist...?

Savage, Razkar was taught by his mother, does not mean stupid. So he weighed his options carefully, eyes never leaving this nameless knight before he answered.

"To pain." He said, accent mollified slightly by two seasons outside his jungle home, but still guttural even with the words carefully pronounced. "We use train weapons. And less armor."

The Myrian inhaled deeply as he waited for an answer, face radiating animal anticipation as if he weren't under armed guard and on trial for his life.

A match with a knight in a hallowed arena of warriors. This day is looking up...

[Xalet]

Xalet nodded at what seemed like a fair request. In mortal combat where no limitations existed, armor was meant to be as much a tool for victory as any other. It took years to learn to wear appropriately, and even longer to learn to 'use'. Any man could strap the plates on tight to their body, but learning the subtle turns and banks that one could perform with their frame to allow hard strikes to simply skip off of the armors fluting was an art. "No armor then. It is the most fair." the purple skinned Akalak commented, recognizing that the complete lack of armor would remove any potential advantage or disadvantage of wearing any layers at all. "Very well, lead the combatants into the preparation chambers." the lead Akalak stated, a few men breaking off to bring both Razkar and Xalet into the left most hallway of the Arena, where four doors were offered to those whom needed to prepare themselves for combat. It was there that the two men were also able to request the practice weapons that most closely mirrored their own. The preparation chambers were small and simple. They contained benches, armor and weapon maintenance supplies, and a water basin to hydrate. Once there Xalet began the ritual of removing his layers of armor. His outward cloak, meant to ward off the cold of the winter and designate himself as a member of the Syliran Knights unclasped first, followed closely by the breast and backplate that made up his curiass. The attached spaulders were anchored to his biceps by strapping, which were promptly undone. All in all, the cuirass and spaulders accounted for almost forty pounds of weight. Undoing the bazubands that covered his forearms as well as his gauntlets, he laid them in a similar pile before removing his belt, hunching over, and shrugging the lengthy mail hauberk down onto the floor. The mail itself accounted for an additional forty pounds. His shovel greaves that worked to protect his legs were quickly unbelted, along with his sollerets. His gambeson was the last layer of armor to come free. Bazubands, shovel greaves, gauntlets, sollerets, and gambeson, responsible for the final twenty pounds of encumbrance. Allowing his bones to creak slightly as he stretched them, the Knight was quick to hydrate himself as much as possible from the basin. It was something he had done before every battle he had gotten himself into, both large and small. Proper hydration was constantly lauded by his Patron as the most important preparation before combat, second to nutrition and mental focus. It wasn't long before an Akalak joined him, providing the subsequent choices in weaponry Xalet had to pick from. The short swords he had learned to use were quite common all over Mizahar, so finding something similar was easy. Testing the weight, balance, and overall length of a few, the Syliran finally made his choices, ensuring that the weapons could be tucked in the provided sheaths he had. A shield of similar dimensions, yet more plain than his own was offered. Wooden and well made, it would serve him well enough against similar practice weapons. Once he felt appropriately equipped he was left alone as was custom until the time of the combat. In the end he had his breeches, his boots, his tunic and surcoat, two similar metal cored practice short swords, a wooden heater shield, and the body he had trained to become a weapon itself. He looked down at his beaten right palm where the spiraling symbol of Priskil rested. Clenching his big fist he turned toward the door as he heard footsteps approaching it. "It's time." the Akalak spoke, eliciting only a small nod from Xalet. The large man was brought through a long corridor, much in the way Razkar would be, until the lengthy passage finally dead-ended into an antechamber, lit by a single torch and the light of the great outdoors passing through the grates of the portcullis. On the other side of the sands would be Razkar, a man Xalet knew nothing about. There had been those that attempted to speak of the Myrians skills, but the Syliran preferred to turn a deaf ear. With the first swing in combat, Xalet would be able to determine what type of person this slayer was, of that he was certain. Much as could be expected, a large gathering had taken to the stands, curious to watch the outcome of the match. Of them were several Knights and Squires from the outpost, interested in watching this recently Knighted warrior of Sergeant Irine Braklin, whose blood was of the very first Knight family lines. In that moment, as the heavy grates that kept the two fighters separated started to rise, Xalet realized Razkar wasn't the only one looking forward to this, shared emotions from his darker half, Xuphim, filled his head, causing the corners of his mouth to rise up in a slight smile, the first real outward emotion he had shown.

[Razkar]

"No armor then. It is the most fair."

Razkar gave the briefest nod in response and appreciation. He had heard stories of the knights (or was it capitalized? He would have to find out...), and knew they prized their honor and nobility above all other things. The Myrian had mixed feelings about that. A warrior needed a code, else he was just a murderer in armor. But slavishly devoting oneself to notions of fair play and combat etiquette... hamstrung a fighter.

But under the circumstances, a little voice chimed in as Razkar's eyes reviewed the thick armor plate covering the Akalak, I'd have to say, "Don't knock it."

"Very well, lead the combatants into the preparation chambers."

No further words were necessary, and the group moved as one at the lead Akalak's command. The escort split neatly, but weighed more towards Razkar, of course. They didn't want to risk the prisoner escaping. Razkar saw four doorways, and when one of them opened the Akalak vanished inside.

Another was opened for him, a glaring guard jerking his head inwards. The Myrians silently did as he was told, and was unsurprised to hear the lock and bolt slide home when he was inside.

A room of preparation, cool and orderly and quiet. Not wanting to disturb it, Razkar carefully and deliberately unburdened himself of his armor. He was sure it would be a much quicker procedure than the Akalak was enduring... which reminded him, he had never asked his name. Oh, well...

The studded leather armor that covered his torso from wait to neck was attached to him by straps and buckles on his side and at his shoulders. They didn't trouble him, and he didn't rush. In fact, his eyes did not move much as he went about his task, barely flickering until he peeled the armor off him and laid it carefully on a bench.

Breeches, tunic, shoes... that's all.

The weapons, however, would require scrutiny.

There was certainly a vast selection. Every kind of sword, shield, ax, mace, spear, dagger and everything in between, all made from burnished oak or pine and in all sizes. The Myrians had hefted a hand ax out of instinct, felt the weight of it, took a few practice swings... and then he paused.

His skill was undoubtedly better with a gladius by this point. The sparring sessions he had undergone recently were almost always focused on the short, thrusting sword. His hand ax was used, yes, but... would it do much good against the Akalak? Its power in a straight slash was undeniable... still...

Play to your strengths. But don't ignore other avenues.

In the end, he decided on two gladii, painstakingly testing each one until he had a pair he liked. They were a longer variety than he was used to, but that wasn't saying much considering they were shortest of the swords used by most warriors. Three times he hefted a wooden blade in each hand, swung and blocked and replaced it. Only when he was happy did he take the two, one for each hand, and sheath them in his belt.

The Myrian frowned deeply as he did so. The core of these was... solid. Far more than wood should be. Was there... metal inside them? Incredible. He shook his head in wonder, already imagining with delight what pain a firm swipe or thrust could cause his foe.

That works both ways, boy. Remember that.

He selected a wooden hand ax, too, roughly the same size and weight of his own. Razkar allowed a pang of regret as he stuffed it at the small of his back, resting at an angle to the hilt didn't bang into his legs. He would have preferred his own ax today. It was given to him by his mother when he was a child, and had been his constant companion for decades. Besides which, the Power of Bones worked upon it would have been... quite an advantage.

The tiniest shrug, and the regret was gone. One does not always choose the circumstances of his battles.

Once that was done, so was he... or almost. The water basin off to one side was certainly inviting, and without ceremony the Myrian dunked his head in it up to his neck. After a few seconds he burst back out, wet topknot flinging water back in an arc behind him. He used a rag to dry his face and took more measured gulps afterwards, wanting to have plenty of liquid inside him for what was to come.

Knocking down the Akalak would be akin to chopping down a tree. Hard enough usually, but harder when the tree was actively trying to do the same to you. He would need the energy he could muster.

But even after that, there was still time for him to kill. He listened, eyes closed, and bit by bit, chime by chime, the sounds around him became sharper. The vibrations from hundreds of feet, moving above and around him. The muted chattering of conversation through rock and stone. The innumerable little sounds from animals and pests that infested even here, this bastion of Akalak strength...

Razkar's mind emptied as he listened to those sounds. His hands clenched and unclenched. Then he bent and stretched, touching his toes, then putting his fingers under them until his back cracked. He braced himself against the wall and pulled his arms, twisted them, loosened them...

All with his eyes closed, but his vision filled with the giant he had yet to face.

When the door opened again, locked clanging free a second time, it was with a force that snapped his eyes open. When they did, the same Akalak stood there, face still grave and unsmiling.

"It's time."

Razkar followed him, and noticed with some surprise that it was only him, not them. They gave him that much trust, at least, but this far deep into the caverns under the Combat Arena, where would he run to even if he did slay his single guard? And, really, why would he?

This was what he wanted. Razkar realized that as they came to the long, sloping ramp that led up to the light, stymied and barred by some kind of portcullis. The Akalak stopped at the foot of it, silent, but the Myrian kept walking.

Each step, and he felt each heartbeat. Felt his weapons at his sides, swaying slightly in their sheaths. The ax at his back. He fancied that every grain of sand was known to his soles, the light becoming stronger, until with a scraping, grinding roar the portcullis was raised and he stepped out into the arena.

Vast, circular and covered with sand. No other features marred it; better there be none, so the focus of the crowds would be solely on the contestants down below them. Razkar raised his head and found hundreds of faces lining the stands. Mostly Akalaks, many roaring at him with barely-controlled fury, but also humans, there for the show, and others. A clutch of gleaming figures were more subdued, and Razkar squinted at them, noting they were similar armor to that which Xalet sported earlier.

The roar of them. The sound of their fury and bloodlust... it formed a smile on Razkar's face. Not so different, were they? For all their martial honor, they were as enamored with the prospect of violent death as the most savage of his race.

He looked across the sand and saw the Akalak striding towards him, now unarmored but only slightly less imposing because of it. He truly was gigantic. Only Mizra Aqdas, venerable sensei of the Kendoka Sasaran, was taller (and by quite a bit), but even he was not as muscled as the giant across from him.

Razkar noted the shield strapped to one arm, the two swords in the same sheaths as first they met, but now practice weapons, not tempered steel. Razkar stepped forward and unsheathed his gladii, one in each hand, swiping them around him, getting his muscles and balance used to the weight of them.

He would need to. For this tree, much swinging would be involved.

As they closed, Razkar stopped, blades crossed before his face, and whispered words in his own tongue. His eyes were open and they saw, but his mind for a brief moment was elsewhere. Far west...

"Myri, gaze with favor upon your son and brother this day."

That was all he said, because nothing more could be. This was his purpose. Every training session, every spar, every battle and skirmish, every life he had taken was a clear path leading towards this moment. A fight for his life against a towering enemy. They wielded wooden weapons but the battle would be no less earnest because of them... especially for Razkar.

That, he realized, would be yet another advantage he would have in this contest. If the Akalak lost, he would be jeered by his peers for a little while, but he would walk from this Arena with his life and liberty. If Razkar lost... he lost all.

Razkar readied himself, left gladius held vertical and slightly angled to block and parry, his right cocked back further to strike. His left foot was forward, his knees slightly bent and his weight resting somewhere between the two. Details. So many details, but so important, if only to keep his center of gravity low and aid his movement.

Looking up at the impassive titan and the broad shield he held, Razkar knew that he would need every ounce of it.

The two of them waited, surrounded by alone, for the screamed word that would release them.

[Xalet]

"You nervous?" the voice inside of him spoke through his feelings, ones that were only half of his own. "No." he replied smoothly. Xalet understood how easy he had it. It wasn't him on 'trial' after all. He could only hope that this man he was to fight was simply lost, and that Priskil's light could illuminate a path for him leading away from death and savagery. The cool air moving across his skin was almost alien to him. So long had he fought most seriously while wearing his armor, that it's cumbersome weight left him feeling naked, but so light. It was as if he was a feather, his legs providing only the slightest hit of effort to move that heavy frame. Sliding his arm through the straps of his wooden shield he flexed his hand across the grip, pulling forth a short sword from his sheath. It's weight was similar to his most trusted weaponry, more sturdy and significant than a simple wooden replica. "Raise the gates!" the call came, signaling the start of the combat. The heavy metal that kept both of them from the outside world pulled upward, moving steadily until they were free to exit the antechamber. With a deep breath Xalet's booted foot stepped onto the sands, feeling its soft touch beneath him. His prints left small indentations as the fine earth gave way for his weight. "Good luck." he called out, as it seemed wrong not to wish it. In this culture if Razkar won he was a free man, after all, so as it was at that very moment they were just two fighters in an Arena, much as other Akalaks had done for sport and technique refinement. Xalet would allow the people of Riverfall to witness the Syliran martial arts. Razkar would find Xalet a very straight forward fighter. With the favored weapon being a short sword, quite similar in length to the Myrian's gladii, he enjoyed close forms of combat the most. He liked to close distances quickly and get straight into the fight, much as he was doing now as his feet carried him toward his opponent. Xalet didn't waste any time at all measuring or throwing testing jabs, his first task was stance matching his foe, placing his footing posture with the appropriate mirrored foot forward, from there he pulled his body downward onto his large thighs and stabbed forward with his short sword, promptly raising his shield in a 'cover' position. Only meant to ward off an overhand strike for a split second, he quickly jerked the bottom of his shield, now positioned parallel to the ground forward, attempting a shield technique called Gouging upon the Myrian. The Gouge looked to catch an opponents head or upper body with the bottom point of the heater shield, or, if they attempted to immediately counter attack, looked to dig into an extended arm. Stepping through his attack as he Gouged with his shield, Xalet followed up his attack with a measured front stamp kick. The stamp kick had become something of a signature maneuver for him, though more often against opponents that mirrored his own use of a shield. With his technique augmented by the brutal muscular training he had endured, his foot was often enough to put a fellow Syliran onto the ground, even behind their shield. The Akalak was one of few Knights who never allowed his unarmed training to lapse behind his sword and shieldwork, enabling him to utilize sword, shield, and the hard style unarmed martial art techniques of the militant Syliran Knights in sequence. It was his ultimate achievement to fight against those with Magic as often without their Djed or tools, they were lost. Without magic of his own, Xalet still had his sword. Without his sword, Xalet still had his shield. Without either, Xalet still had his entire body. Never be defenseless, that was what the Konti Irine Braklin had taught him.

[Razkar]

Master Yagyu once remarked, "I do not know the way to defeat others, but the way to defeat myself."

+++++

Razkar knew before he even stepped into the Arena, when he first saw the knight, actually, that he about as much chance of stopping him face-to-face as he would a charging Tskanna. Even without armor, his sheer size and prodigious strength would batter down any defense of offence Razkar tried to mount. He would need to go around the Akalak, around that damned shield that was as broad as his torso.

The Myrian hated them, not only for their power, but their deception. Once the Akalak crouched down, half-hidden behind the wooden barrier, he denied Razkar any observation. He'd learned about the shield's deceptive used from a Konti at the Kendoka Sasaran, what was her name...

Septimus, wasn't it?

The Akalak thrust his sword forwards and Razkar left gladius jerked up and to Xalet's right, horizontally, knocking the blow away from Razkar and opening his chest. Well, not really, because of the shield, but he could still go for-

Then the shield came up in a rush, going from vertical to horizontal in a flick of the Akalak's arm, but Razkar's own gladius was thrusting towards his pectoral-

-and he barked in pain when the shield hammered into his shoulder, his right arm exposed where he had attempted to thrust.

The Akalak loomed larger, striding into his strike and dwarfing the Myrian. The shadow of him snapped Razkar out of his pain. The knight's style was utterly aggressive and very practiced. He fought like Razkar, in many ways: get in close and take your enemy down quick. Nothing showy, just fast and brutal. Against an even match, Razkar could defend against that.

Against this monster, and so fast for one so vast, he wasn't going to try.

Move! Why are you just standing-

Razkar cut off his own voice as he slid forward and to the side, coming up on Xalet's right as his massive leg kicked out in a blow that would have splintered bone. The Myrian didn't waste time on being impressed. The pain in his shoulder was already flaring, tip of the heater shield wielding by such a huge man like a blow from a mace.

But it had partially swung his body around when he sidestepped, and he went with the motion, swinging low and horizontal with his left gladius at the back of the Akalak's right leg, just above the kneecap. His right gladius, trembling slightly in his grip thanks to that wicked blow from the shield, slashed forwards in a shot, sharp arc, aiming for the Akalak's sword arm.

Whether or not he hit his marks, Razkar would keep moving, sliding over sand and throwing up little clots of it as he went, putting at least a good six feet between him and those long, brawny arms with wooden weapons attached to them. He couldn't let the Akalak get that close again. That time, he'd been lucky, but luck wouldn't hold against skill like the knight's forever.

But even with that thought rattling in his skull, Razkar's heart exulted and his eyes shone. Was the knight the only one with skills? No, he was not. You are marked by the Goddess of War and blooded in battle in two nations, he told himself. And these snarling, booing people above you see you as naught but a half-naked savage who can barely swing a blade.

Prove them wrong.

OOCThat roughly what you were getting at in your PMs?

[Xalet]

The sound of metal reinforced wood on flesh was quite unmistakable. The impact against the tensed musculature of the Akalak caused the flesh beneath his breeches to ripple, although he paid it no immediate mind. In fact, the very moment the weapon touched home upon his skin his corded sinew flexed tightly, bunching up in an attempt to pad the blow and keep it from harming the bone below too greatly. As Razkar swung around to create distance, the heel of Xalet's foot followed just a split second behind, clearly aimed at taking the man's head off, though the reach was too shallow after the Myrian had put an extra helping of ground between them. Bits of sand fluttered through the air, thrown back by the inside hook kick the Akalak looked into landing directly after receiving the blow. Although the look of disappointment was not upon his face, he took a moment to shake his leg out, swiveling the knee and removing some of the sting before resting his deep arch upon the ground. "He has not had an average amount of training. I'd say his is greater than ours." Xalet explained. "So...what, you're saying he's better than us? We're going to lose?" Xuphim, of course, was not one to become involved in any matters that involved the both of them not being superior to any problem or obstacle they faced. "In terms of sheer polish, he is better. There are many things that make up a warrior, of course. We've been consuming a clean diet, filled with perfectly rationed meats and vegetables, mixed with unending physical exercise. Our muscular density is completely different from his." "You better not be saying we're just going to look better than the average loser." if it was possible to mentally propel the image of a sneer to his counterpart, now would have been the most opportune time for the dark brother. "No, in this type of combat, we're at an advantage. Dense muscles can protect against impacts, and we have trained to be an endurance fighter." "Part of being a Knight is knowing the difference between a barbarian whom found himself the comfort of a weapon, and someone who dedicates themselves to the art. I don't know if you can understand all of my words, but I will give you everything." the Akalak responded in those few moments when fighters gave each other some space. That was the short period that existed during the evaluation of one another's fighting style, even from such a brief encounter. Inside, the dialog that moved through Xalet's thoughts with his other half existed in a time frame which was, relatively speaking, much faster than any typical physical interaction, so his words in combat were often brief. Distance was a strange thing for Xalet, since as a fighter he had trained with close, medium, and long ranged weaponry, and even if he was without his crossbow there was never an instance when he believed he was without a way to reach his foe. Why did a man who wielded a shield in one hand and a short blade in the other carry a second sword? Pulling his shield hand to the rear against the small of his back, Xalet began the preparation of performing two actions at once. The hand that held the strap of his shield pulled at the pommel of his still sheathed second sword, the tight leather of the strap still sitting snugly against his palm. The toe of his lead foot pulling back slightly in his stance, Xalet raised his wooden short sword up over his head as if to attack with a potent downward strike which could never hope of reaching the Myrian. That was until with a quick, whip like yank of his wrist he released his sword. As the weapon shot toward Razkar, Xalet knew better to rely solely on that if he had any chance at getting the better of someone like Razkar. Even as the hilt was freeing itself from his grip the purple Knight was following directly behind the weapon which had been voluntarily relieved from his grasp as he ran forward. With his shield in the lead he fired it out, his training bringing his now empty hand into the back of his shield where he held his secondary blade, swapping the 'backup' from his shield hand to his sword arm. That attacking side tucked it's elbow deep into his own right side armpit, keeping the tip of the blade parallel to the ground before he fired it out in a series of rapid stabs. The technique of keeping the elbow high in the pit of the arm, similar to a fencers lunge, was taught to him by a tobacco chewing Knight whom was thought to be without the reflexes that made up a proper fighter. It was meant to enable the otherwise below-average knife fighter to sneak his attacks past the often superior defenses of his faster squadmates during training. His sight was unfocused, but centered upon Razkar's chest and shoulders, the 'Far Mountain Sight' as it was called by his Patron. Try to watch everything, yet focus on nothing.