PM to join Peace and War [Razkar]

[Markus Andres]

That would be too easy if he got the myrian fighter with that initial dagger strike. If that had landed, Markus would not have been this hard pressed to defeat this myrian. Shield and dagger both moving in unison to keep the fighter off his game. Keep his hard pressed, but a fast fighter like him would not be cornered without a fight. The heavy air that Markus was starting to breathe in was becoming a problem. A part of him still reprimanded him for leaving the conserving defensive stance. Would have saved his strength and energy and kept the myrian fighter the expending one. Retreating, weaving, dodging the attacks, the myrian struck Markus' nerves. As much as he enjoyed this fight, he also wished to end this fighter before Markus knew that it was he who emptied out. Distance was created between the two. The grotesque fighter having succeeded in getting the distance that Markus could no longer harass him into the defensive. Another primal yell electrified Markus' senses. Invigorating him in a sense. The axe moving about, the pattern familiar after the first two circles. Markus ceased the attack, he could not rush into that magically enhanced axe, it would be foolish. As much as he hated it, just the threat of that axe had put him back on the defensive. His wary eyes on the myrian, not following the movements of the axe. It finally struck at him, Markus pulled both arms back and avoided the blasted magical axe' swing, but Markus found out that it was now he who had been duped. A feint to distract him. The myrian was quick to exploit the knight's defensive posture and the momentary lack of defence. Slipping by and had Markus had his bastard sword, his turn and right backhanded swing at the figure moving by could have cut his backside open. This was not his trusted Bastard, this was a flimsy dagger and upon spotting the direction the myrian had been moving he realized that would not be enough to win this fight. His eyes went in the direction of the Bastard, but the myrian would intercept him. He would have to make due with what he had. Even if what he had was magic, a dagger and his trusted shield. For the myrian rose with the gladius again and did not waste any time. Given time he might have had a more intricate plan. But the warmth of Syna, the exhaustion of the fast paced battle and the sheer stress his body was facing from the use of magic. This would be over soon. One way or another. His flux went down again. Strengthening his legs as he considered that the most important aspect of the fight. Willing the extra energy and power to reinforce his balance and his ability to withstand that axe of his. There could be no doubt that it would be the one leading the attack. Like the knights sometimes hammered through the enemy lines with heavy cavalry and then support could move in and pick apart the smashed remnants of the enemy. Unfortunately Markus was only now beginning to see a pattern in the myrian's attacks. Something he could have used at the start of the battle. Every time he moved to the shield side, things were about to get very serious, for those were the times where he thought he could challenge the might of his shield arm. Challenge and often win. A thin tense smile crossed his lips as sweat rolled down his face. His feet turned on the ground, right leg moving back to support the heavy strike he was about to feel. The muscles reinforced by the magic of his flux. Muscles tense and when the heavy strike landed on his shield, the power vibrated down his body and into the ground. Markus stood his ground, albeit almost an inch further back. Markus wasted no time, his dagger shooting forward to catch the myrian's axe hand and further weaken his offensive capabilites, only to find himself read by the opponent. Dagger hand hit, armour taking the brunt of the force, the dagger lost to his nimble fingers as the blunt damage kicked in. Stopping his attack dead in the sand. His teeth grit together as he ignored the pain of his hand. The flux still at his legs, he pushed off. Right hand moving again, this time in a straight forward pattern. His armour was in itself a weapon, a gauntleted fist hurt... A lot, when it struck soft flesh. Especially when Markus' aim was simply to cause damage to the face that had so intrigued him at first, the grotesque appearance. 230 pounds of knight and an added 40 pounds of metal bearing down on the myrian. Right hand lashing out viciously in a cross to strike the myrian down. About the last thing Markus had in his repertoire of attacks. He had to gamble everything on knocking the myrian out or down with this strike, for Markus had not the energy to keep fighting at this intense pace any longer.

[Razkar]

The crowd knew better than the fighters that the grand and gruelling spar was coming to an end. They could see the signs that the Knight and the Savage were ignoring or unaware of.

The fatigue. The exhaustion. The grinding down of resolve and athleticism by wounds and exertion. Clipped and precise strokes and blows became scrambling, desperate swings... but it was not yet over.

Razkar grunted with satisfaction as the dagger fell, clattering to the ground as once again his opponent was disarmed. But he had been fooled before and would not allow the human to trick him again, just because he had only his fist-

-his metal fist-

-jerking back-

-fingers clenched.

The Myrian had just enough time to blink before Markus lashed out, and reacted blindly, desperately, even the gnosis of Blessed Myri weakening from such constant use. Every tick that djed was weakening, the Myrian's body only taking so much-

-and thus deciding to get out of the way entirely-

-as Razkar dropped down to one knee, impact of his bare flesh on the sandy stone sending a tremor of agony rushing through him. He grunted and choked down the pain, just happy to have escaped, mailed and metaled gauntlet passing over his head-

-but the same wyrd that had driven Markus before was driving him now, throwing his body forward with that last gamble, a towering, hulking armored form crashing into the crouching Myrian-

-falling over him-

-making him howl in that high, savage bark of pain as a fully-grown man encased in armor collapsed on top of him, pinning the bottom half of his body-

-and all thoughts of their dance of skill and cunning vanished. In a mad tangle of sweating, panting bodies, there was only the animal brutality of the brawler, and while some halfway-civilized part of Razkar's mind held him back from cleaving the human's head open, most of him seemed to just snap:

Fine by me.

Twisting desperately under the Knight lying half on his stomach and half across Razkar's legs, Razkar saw in a tick that the human's torso and upper body - gleaming but now smeared with sand - was on his right, pinning his right arm, his ax-

"Skurak!"

-and with that growled curse from a season beyond the Fortress City, Razkar jerked his torso brutally to his right, almost facing the heaving mass of flesh and iron pinning his other side-

-bringing his gladius up in a sweeping vertical swing from the ground, flipping it in his hand so it was held underarm, dagger-style-

-making it all the easier to hammer the hardened bone hilt into the back and side of Markus' helmet. The Knight was perhaps stunned for a tick or two by his fall, but that would not last, and Razkar would not rely on mere exhaustion and a trip to win this duel.

The reversed gladius flashed through the air, bore by blood-wet hands above snarling lips, Razkar resolved to beat that damn thing against the shining bucket-like head until that petching human stopped twitching or yielded.

Unlikely... and unwanted.

OOCLemme know if this went too far. Seemed logical given Markus' burst of movement and Raz's counter to it, but I'm not out to godmod anyone... overmuch.

[Markus Andres]

It was a ferocious battle between the two fighters. Neither wanted to give way, wanted to allow the other the upper hand. Both fought like animals to be the biggest alpha male around. The tenacity the myrian fought with doubled the respect the fighter had already earned. Continued despite his injures. Forcing Markus time upon time into the defensive style he so despised to engage the enemy in. He would nod his had in respect was it not for the precarious situation he was currently in. Markus lost balance as he swung out at the myrian fighter. His meticulously built balance was shattered through the mix of exhaustion and use of Flux to alter the strength output. The years of training with a slowly increasing strength, speed and precision did not allow for such violent alterations to his strength output. The almost free fall ended with a crash of armour clattering and Markus coughing harshly as his chest collided with the padding, protecting him from the suit crushing him. But Markus felt blood. Felt pain. Intense blinding pain from his forehead as it collided with the front of the helmet. This was hell, a too familiar hell. The exhaustion weakening his limbs, his senses either blinded or muffled through the use of armour. Sight minimal and face down, allowing him to see little more than the ground. Breathing quick and hardly carrying enough oxygen to rejuvinate his biological system. Hearing impared by the metal between him and the outside world. Smell and taste entirely useless in any case. The last sense of touch, did not exist wearing armour. There simply was no pinpoint location of where something was touching him. Only the whole area of the armour that was being pushed down. As for now he could only tell his right arm was pinned. For that he could see his right hand just underneath his face when he moved his head a little. For a brief moment he had tried, desperately tried to hang onto the control of his astral pathways. Maintain the power of the flux within his sphere, but it too slipped away from him as his balance vanished. His mind too chaotic and unfocused to even attempt another conscious moving of strength around. Despite, it hardly mattered now. The myrian was in the excellent position for a coup de grace. Or so the knight thought. Markus registered little of this, for his mind was still in fight mode, so even dazed as he was by the sudden fall and loss of balance, he knew there was a lightning fast agile opponent somewhere around him seeking a victory. He had seen the little petcher dodge his strike, but where had he gone now. Probably behind him. His fear was confirmed when a strike hit his armour in the back of the head. The gong like sound that vibrated through the armour deafened him momentarily. Knocking his head back into the front of the helmet. More blood smeared the inside, the cut deeper. Briefly yielding was considered, it was resoundingly defeated by his stubborn desire for victory. The fighter must be wailing at him like there was no tomorrow. Might as well yield. Markus turned his head and tried to lift his left arm. Only when he turned his head he saw legs under him to his left. The myrian was not standing above smacking him down. Trying to crack the steel plate shell. He was trapped under the fighter. Markus breathed in hot air and sand from the ground. Coughing even harder as he mustered what strength was left. In his system. Judging from his own not being bashed in, the myrian was using his gla- Dooooonnggg- gladius. Which probably meant that was trapped as well. Or the myrian was clear headed enough not to kill Markus. Markus' reaction was rather simple. Roll. Roll a half turn or as far as was needed to get his shield from his left side directly into whatever squishy part of the myrian fighter was cloest. Be it his face or the injured left arm, Markus did not care. He could still fight, albeit at a very decreased rate, but he did not care. Fight 'til he could no longer stand and continue! Bloodied and beaten, did not matter to the stubborn fighter. There always was a way, throught he pain and haze of senses muffled by armour, he would find his path to victory. Should the myrian give way should the strike land resoundingly, Markus would continue the rolling entirely over the fighter and onto his knees, using the shield as a improvised crutch as he put his weight down on it and his right hand swung out in a close ranged hook once again towards whatever part of the myrian fighter was in sight. Be it face, back, chest, arm... Did not matter much. Just injure him. Force him to yield. Break his desire to fight. Subjugate the man. Before Markus simply slumped over from exhaustion that claimed his strength.

[Razkar]

Every blow resounded like a hammer on an anvil, echoing and booming around the stone floors and pillars like thunder bought to the ground. Razkar could only imagine what the noise was like in that helmet, but he couldn't see what damage he was truly doing... and knew Markus would see easier what damage it was doing to him.

Every blow resounded through his body, too. Every swing of his arms sent another burst of burning blood through his veins, gnosis weakening, sheer bloody-minded Myrian essence driving him now... and the whispers, the red whispers from his Malediction-worked gladius, telling him this was no longer a spar.

It was a duel.

But the human would not let him have it all his own way, and like the waking of a metal bear there was a distorted, alien groan and the ground shifted under Razkar-

-no, above him-

"Shyke!"

Razkar barked out the word in pain and horror as the blade-edged shield rose like a sun above him in a short but lazy arc aimed straight at his upper body. Instinctively he tried to block with his ax-

-held in a numb arm, buried under the armored torso of his enemy-

-so jerked up his gladius instead as the shield hammered down towards him, gritting his teeth, mouth slick with blood and sweat now, froth forming at his lips-

-and then the Knight kept rolling, and Razkar's eyes went wide with horror-

-as Markus' armored weight rolled over him like the tide, pushing on top of his shield as he did so, pushing it down, and the gladius that had been blocking it-

-down onto Razkar's shoulder.

Another roar of agony as his blade bit into his already-battered and injured flesh, now smacking more of anger directed at himself for being so petching blind. He'd practically given Markus that blow; he might as well have carved his own shoulder up into the bargain.

But with that human's victory came an advantage for the Myrian: the insufferable weight of the Knight was gone. Now, if he could just remember how to move...

Razkar groaned like an old man; his movements now had no fluidity or grace, the acrobatic guise of the jungle predators his people aped so much in their styles. Now simply sitting upright and sliding to his knees was a challenge, an effort of epic proportions as his muscles screeched and begged for sweet release. He tried to use his ax as some kind of crutch but his arm was still numb, not really part of him anymore, movements fumbling and amateur, only his gladius retaining any kind of control-

-and just in time as he saw Markus swing his armored visage back to him, shield scraping and grinding on the stone as he faced him-

-right hand slashing out brutally at the Myrian, and with an exhausted grunt Razkar flung up his gladius desperately-

-metal clanging on metal as his blade met the human's armored gauntlet, knocking it off its path to his chin, a blow that would have knocked him clear from this world and into the Dreamscapes-

-but sent it crashing into his bleeding, dripping shoulder instead.

The Myrian screamed; a common sound to the crowd, by now, all the more jarring due to the relative silence from the human. Faceless, featureless, with no bruises or blood to reveal weakness and damage, it seemed like a great battle between organic and material... but Razkar could smell the sweat and fatigue on the human, see the way his shoulders bobbed and chest heaved.

Not nearly as much as you, though.

And as if to prove the point, his gladius left his fingers for a second time, the Knight's blow to his shoulder first setting his arm on fire and then rendering it dumb and senseless, blade clattering to the stones and his body turned-

-but he was still a warrior, a fighter, and when he saw weakness-

-like a crutch-

-he struck at it, a wide, low, clumsy strike at the bottom of Markus' shield, seeking to knock it from under the Knight and send him crashing back to the stone. Both of them were on their knees now, wounded and near the end of their threads, hardly the magnificent examples of Knight and Warrior they were beforehand, and Razkar thought he might fall forward.

Then he would throw himself onto the prone figure and hammer down with his ax onto whatever he could reach, anything that would break or bruise or fracture under that petching armor. Red spots danced before the Myrian's wide, black eyes and the song of his gladius was lost to him... but only the tune. The word were still there.

The spar was over; now it was a duel, and he was far past the point of no return. Even as he girded himself for that final leap towards his enemy... he knew it would be the final one. He didn't even know if he would have the energy to manage more than one or two blows from the ax before his arm went numb again... but doubted Markus would have much left in his arsenal, either, especially hindered and pressed down by his armor.

Something between a smile and a snarl flashed across his face as he hurled himself at the Knight. Their eyes met for a fraction, but that broken tick stretched to words passing between them.

Well-fought, barbarian.

[Markus Andres]

Markus had not the mental reserve to judge whether or not his shield did any noteworthy damage before he rolled over the myrian fighter. As the knight rolled and his body moved he felt the many small signs that his body was far from in excellent shape. His right leg hurt. Leg probably bruised from when the myrian struck him at the start of the fight. The stress of the fight must've made the bruise worse. The back and front of his head competed for what part was in most pain. Forehead from smacking against the face helmet, back from being pounded on by the gladius. Markus did not hear the myrian scream. He was partially deafened from the repeated blows to the helmet. As he got on his knees and saw the carnage, his fist was already in air. Markus' metal covered fist swung hard against the gladius and was unfortunately directed into the fighter's shoulder. That Markus now noticed was bloodied. Very bloodied. The gladius was flung from the fighter's hand, but that hardly mattered to Markus anymore. He had been amazed that the man had even been capable of holding a gladius in that arm. No longer though. That arm looked as good as destroyed for his fight. If Markus could just get that little more energy into his muscles, he could throw himself over the myrian. Wrap his right hand around his throat and strangle him. Pin his axe arm and just let oxygen deprivation take care of him. It was a solid plan. Just a moment of focus of djed or any couple of seconds of rest and his muscles might have recovered enough. Just a little more time. His right hand moved to clamp around his throat like the tiger biting down on the prey. Squeeze until there was nothing passing through the neck. But there was another loud sound of metal being hammered upon and Markus' improvised crutch, his hand went off target, he lost what little balance remained. Markus' weight had been resting upon it heavily and he fell down on the elbow as the next resting place. Markus tried to get back up, get back on his knees where he could answer strike for strike, but he was expended. His energy had almost emptied out, for the panic a moment later truly emptied him. Though the myrian was not done. Markus could see the axe rise to strike at him and sheer instincts had him push away with everything that touched the ground. The haphazard strike of the myrian would have struck him in the shoulder had the knight not made a last ditch effort to dodge the attack. Grace and elegance was about as far from the words that could describe Markus' movement. A huge metal pile trying desperately to avoid destruction. He saw the axe, despite the impossible speed of the myrian fighter. It struck directly into the breastplate over his right chest. Markus felt the power of that blow through the plate and mail. Felt as the sheer force of impact sent his desperate flight directly into the ground back first. He let out a gasp of air from the combined power of the twin impacts. Lying flat on the ground, shield arm lying off to the side. Markus raised his right arm with a flat hand towards the myrian fighter. The basic sign for stop - as the pain flooded his mind he felt no shame in calling it quits. There was still the will to fight, the desire to attack the myrian. But it was time to be realistic. Had he just had that bit more strength at the right time... "Stop! I'm done!" Markus firm voice called out, surprising even Markus a little that he somehow had managed to maintain control of his voice in this situation. Should the myrian have been so lost in his bloodlust that he continued the attack. Luckily there were knights about who were ready to step in should it be necessary. If the myrian showed fortitude and did not press the attack. Markus would remove his helmet the best he could and get his mouth free so he could breathe freely. Petch the pain that he felt from the strike to his chest. He wanted air and he wanted it straight away.

[Razkar]

Again that resounding, deafening clang rang out across the courtyard, and that time, Razkar did see the damage it did. The shining facade of the breastplate dented and the perfectly jagged circle of Syna on it fractured. The armored body under his spasmed with pain and he struck again, lips curled back in a vengeful, vicious grimace, straddling his enemy.

Heedless of the feet making tracks towards him. Squires and fully-fledged Knights knowing blood rage when they saw it and not willing to stand by while some savage beat their comrade to death.

A hand raised. Razkar jerked back from it, sweat streaming down his barely-clad form, mingling with blood, all of it dripping in a horrible, sticky gel onto Markus' armor, and he moved to strike that bloodied gauntlet down-

"Stop! I'm done!"

-but it stayed in the air. The crowd of onlookers paused, breathing stilled, as it hung in the humid air like it was on a string, immobile... pregnant with their own anticipation...

Razkar looked down into those inscrutable slits... and then, they were not so inscrutable. With some effort, the bucket-like helmet was removed and an exhausted, bruised and reddened face was staring up at him, breathing heavy and with blonde locks plastered to its brow.

The Myrian slowly lowered his weapon. He was not some automaton, this Knight. He was a fighter, a soldier, a warrior... and those whispers fast overrode the growling lust to spill blood before unblinking Syna and ever-watching Blessed Myri.

He has earned more than that. Though he be barbarous and beyond the Light of Myri... he was a worthy adversary, and this is not the place for him to meet Dira.

Razkar's arm hung loose at his side... hells, both of them did. Blood was running in rivulets down his left, joining the lesser tributary from the gash at his wrist, dripping down his fingers and onto the sand. His shin was bruised and throbbed from his ill-fated sweep at Markus' armored leg. The gash over his pectoral was fresh and wider by the moment with every breath... and that was without the multitude of scraped, bruises, cuts and aches peppering his body...

"Blessed Myri," he said in a guttural whisper, voice raised with his lips and eyes to the sun, "Know your Child gained victory in Your name this day..."

The sound of an ax clattering to the stones was much louder than it should have been in the expectant silence of the Arena. Even the shuffling of the Myrian laboriously getting to his feet, a process that took much longer than it needed to, seemed cacophonous in the void. Dozens of eyes watched him raise up, swaying, limping, bleeding, battered and tired...

But he wouldn't leave. Not quite yet. Not until he bent back down to the Knight, strong (well, less injured) right arm extended.

"You are warrior." He said simply, accent mangled and words limited, even after a year among the barbarian lands, but not one wasted nor insincere. And for a Myrian to call someone so alien a warrior...? "You honor your gods."

[Markus Andres]

The second blow to his front armour felt like a hammer to his sternum. Did little to help him with the burning lungs. Markus' breath was already laboured and having a lung empty its contents as he was winded did little to help. Markus bit his teeth together as he felt the suffocating sensation as the lung recovered from the blow. It felt like an eternity. He closed his eyes and finally breath made it down into his lungs and his quick breaths helped him. Looking up at the grotesque man and that axe of his. Looked as if he was fighting a gigantic struggle not to continue hacking away at Markus. But his raised hand and words seemed to have stopped the man from continuing his attacks. There were words. Not directed at him he assumed, for he could barely hear them over the ringing in his ears, but they sounded foreign to him. The knight's right eye started blinking several times as the bleeding wound over the eyes started getting blood in it before Markus simply closed the eye completely. Without the helmet on, breathing was much easier and less restricted. Relatively cool air entered his lungs and Markus felt strength slowly return to him. Muscles still weary. Legs and arms battered. Chest felt as if a Jamoura had stepped on him. Other than the constant pain that adrenalin kept in check, Markus was slowly recovering. The Myrian warrior extended his hand and Markus let a smile ripple through his otherwise pained expression and raised his right arm and grasped the Myrian's and would use it to get back up on his feet. Shield pushing against the ground as he did so. Standing would not be a hassle. Besides, he could lie there all day. "Likewise, friend. Myri be blessed, she fostered a formidable warrior in you." Markus said. Breath still quick. "Name's Markus Andres, Syliran Knight, and you are?" Should the warrior respond with his name, Markus' response would be simple. "I will remember that name..." Markus said with respect and awe in his voice. The warrior was unlike anything he had ever seen before and he was thankful for their encounter - even if it was he who had ended up on the ground defeated - "And may Sylir watch over you, Razkar." Markus looked about for his weapons, Bastard lying over there. Dagger a little further away on the ground. Then to the pool of blood the Myrian was steadily creating on the ground. Some squire would have fun cleaning that up. "What do you say we go find us a pair of healers? My treat. Consider it your victory prize." Should the Myrian warrior agree to this proposal, Markus would pick up his items, the Bastard sheathed, the dagger sheathed just above and his helmet held under the arm. He still felt weak and weary. Muscles drained of strength, but he would not appear weak and the healers and soothing waters could take care of the rest.

OOCFeel free to wrap it up! - And once again, GREAT fight! =)

[Razkar]

"Name's Markus Andres, Syliran Knight, and you are?"

Goddess, it was a stretch just to remember his name. The adrenaline that had kept him up and swinging was now fleeing from his body as the fight finally ended. Now the physiological equivalent of bailiffs were knocking on his bones and requesting - nay, demanding - reparations for his bloody-mindedness.

"R... Razkar... of the Shorn Skulls," the Myrian managed, gritting bloody teeth as he hauled the Knight to his feet, "Son of... Yurta and Zek... Warrior of Taloba and Ch-" Goddess, please don't let me purge myself before these barbarians "-Child of Myri..."

"I will remember that name..."

Despite the fatigue gouging a thousand vengful bites out of him, Razkar managed a more satirical grin than many would think proper on the face of a "savage".

"I think so. Know many Myrians, hmm?"

"And may Sylir watch over you, Razkar."

Some corner of the Myrian wanted to sneer and spit at the barbarian's blessing, but Razkar held himself back. By the standards of his people, this was a fine, strong and cunning male of battle, and he would not shame neither his blood nor his Goddess-Queen by belittling Markus' beliefs. Instead he managed to turn his aiding hand into a shake, meeting those bright, clear eyes with his sparkling black orbs.

"Have enough to... watch you, I think." His eyes flickered over the sand-and-blood-marked armor, and he couldn't find much in the way of rank or insignia upon it. Goddess, was this a lower Knight that had nearly hammered him into the cobbles? He snorted softly and shook his head. "Think you will go far, Knight of Sylir..."

"What do you say we go find us a pair of healers? My treat. Consider it your victory prize."

Razkar just nodded; even his tongue was growing numb. He stood in Syna's light and waited as iron-shod boots clanked purposefully around him, gathering up the steel he'd swatted from gauntlets. With excruciating slowness, he lowered himself down to reclaim his own gladius, wiping it roughly on his throbbing thigh until he was satisfied, sheathing it along with his ax.

Usually the Myrian felt... lessened, without a weapon in his hands. Now, in the arms of exhaustion, they were weights taken off tired fingers.

The hulking armored form was by his side again, and they began walking towards the benches at the edge of the arena-

-stumbling-

"Shyke-!"

His bruised shin finally gave up the ghost and he wobbled, went down-

-one hand lashing out to steady himself on the... annoyingly steady form of Markus Andres. Razkar told himself that it was only the solidness of his armor that kept him upright, augmenting his own limbs, and he nearly believed it, too. But while some of the squires smirked or rolled their eyes, Razkar felt no shame in the sight.

They had fought, tested each others' boundaries, and now the sound and fury of their battle was spent. He had nothing left to prove... neither of them did.

Besides which, he petching needed the support, because damned if he was going to crawl to the pair of grey-robed healers hustling towards them, arms laden with stinking salves and unraveling bandages.

"Petching armor..."

He mumbled with a frothy chuckle and spat a foul gob of crimson-flecked spittle onto the stone. The plates of iron were... reassuring, oddly enough. He understood why many wore them. They were unbreakable, unswerving, reliable in their protection. Razkar patted the shining shoulders of his partner and limped his way towards the healers.

"Suppose... it has its uses..."

[Markus Andres]

Markus chuckled lightly when the Myrian responded with a gruff sarcastic remark. Though he did not understand the next comment, Sylir had enough watching over Markus? Perhaps. The only indicator of rank that Razkar would find on Markus was a silver sword pin that would usually have been fastened to his tunic, but considering that he wore no tunic that was visible it had instead been put on the leather belt by his hip. On the left side, in the middle of the mess of intricate details that the mix of sword and dagger created on the left side. Made it easy to miss the pin. "I certainly hope so." Was Markus' short response to Razkar's surprising compliment that had a weak smirk on his lips. It was good to talk. It got his mind away from the fact that half his muscles were sore as petch. He could not recall last time he had been this weary, every step was its own struggle against muscles weakened. He needed to sit down. Needed to find a place where he could recover. It was also petching annoying that he could only see something from his left eye and the throbbing headache from the wound did little to help him. Yet he was happy. Rarely had he had such a thrilling fight. Markus felt a sudden load on his side and turned his head to see. He stiffened when he saw Razkar's arm on him, using him for support. Petching right eye filled with blood. Markus' weary right arm went around the Myrian's back and held onto that muscular body of his. It was somewhat unsettling to have such a grotesque face this close to his own. Markus' arm protested with acid in the muscles, but Markus ignored the burning sensation and continued. Just a little more before they were by the benches where they could get the first aid that would shut the worst of the injuries. Next, the Soothing Waters where they had more competent healers. The two injured warriors hobbled over to the healers who could take over and support Razkar. Markus plopped down onto the bench. Shield soon discarded against the wall, helmet lying before it. His breath slowing down somewhat, the air getting pulled deeper into his lungs. Although that hurt somewhat with the duo of heavy strikes against his chest. He was fairly certain that none of the ribs were broken, but he was also fairly certain that he was going to have a fun-multicoloured bruise on his chest. Wouldn't know for sure until either the healers had a look at him under the armour. "There's a reason we bother wearing it into battle~ That axe of yours... Just what is it made of? Other than the parts of my chestplate it knocked loose." Markus said with a stronger grin on his lips now - For obvious reasons the healers would turn to Razkar first. His injuries were far more severe, Markus just had a cut on his head that although it looked rather macabre with his face bloodied, it was little compared to Razkar's wounds. Markus just leant his head back against the wall and closed his other eye. Waiting for a response. Waiting for the stinging touch of the healers and cold water when they cleaned the wound.

[Razkar]

The question pierced Razkar's fug of fatigue and weariness like a shaft of sunlight through a cloud. First he winced at it, just wanting to allow the muttering healers to go about their work, lying across one of the benches like it was a half-aborted bed, uncaring as to the dark looks from squires and knights that damn well knew they didn't act so lax after their spars and that was the bloody truth-

"What?" He said after a moment, gritting his teeth as the healer's needle gouged the flesh of his shoulder again, ready for another circuit of his gash, "Not 'what'. But... 'who'..."

The Myrian's head lolled to one side and he saw Markus equally sprawled. Well, they'd earned it. Now stripped of his second skin, Markus looked smaller, but not by much... and the true damage Razkar had wrought was clear to the word now. Blotches of purple, red and blue were splashed on his body like someone had assaulted him with a paint can; his chest looked like one big bruise made up of smaller bruises. Three healers attended to him, fussing over cuts and contusions, while two concentrated on the savage and wondered if this would count as overtime-

-then backed away sharpish as Razkar's trembling hand went for the hilt of his ax. Slow and labored though it was, they kept a weary distance as he unclipped it from his belt... then flipped it lazily in the hair.

A ripple of surprise went through the smaller but still intrigued crowd. The Myrian's hand barely twitched and yet a spinning, shining half-circle flashed through the air, and Razkar caught his weapon by the head-

-wincing, again. Ouch. He really did keep that sharp...

"Look again," he murmured with a grunt, handing it over, rune-encrusted hilt first... waiting for that wonderful moment realization when Markus noticed that was not wood he was holding, but something with more... history, "And you sword?" He jerked his chin weakly at the Bastard. "Good weapon. But make worse with shield."

He rolled his eyes and sighed like a dragon snoring, hawking a gobful of spit without heed onto the stones. Oh, good: more blood.

"Sword you can stop. But shield? Ruros' balls... petching thing is like fighting wall..."